The Dale Cycle
by Ardatli
Summary: A series of connected vignettes following AU versions of the characters from Young Avengers though the events of the Fourth Crusade. Ratings range from Teen through to Explicit, for sexual content, language and violence. Heed the individual chapter warnings.
1. The Road to Santiago

**The Dale Cycle **

**Part One: Road to Santiago**

This is part one of a multi-story cycle, set in and around the Fourth Crusade (1201 - 1204 CE). I'll probably write and post them in order, but as this is intended as a mood break from Profs!AU, I have no set schedule as to when. Each one will be reasonably self-contained, and not end on extreme cliffhangers.

Each story in this cycle is inspired by (some more loosely than others) a particular song from Canadian folk singer/songwriter Heather Dale. She is _phenomenal_, and I strongly recommend you check her out. She has a free album available for download on her website ("Perpetual Gift"), and I think pretty much all of her songs are on YouTube in some form or another. I'll link to particular ones as I go.

(Or rather I would, but ffnet is stripping out all my coding. Argh. Find me on AO3 under this screen name for the full version with links.)

This is a medieval AU, and has been researched-within-reason. That is to say, I know quite a bit about the middle ages and the Crusades, I've done the reading on the basics of this particular Crusade and figured out how to fit these guys in, and hopefully the environment will ring true. If I've gotten some details wrong I beg for your forgiveness and indulgence.

While it's highly unlikely that everyone would be able to communicate with everybody in the real world, I've chosen to give all the main characters a language in common (French, here rendered as English) in order to make the story about the characters rather than strict historical veracity. Please don't stone me.

That being said, this series will likely contain language that is period-appropriate but distressing, specifically toward non-Christians, women and homosexual behaviour. Needless to say, as a queer Jewish woman, these are absolutely _not _my own personal views.

If anti-semitic (to both Jews and other semites), misogynist and homophobic language in specific context, and/or internalized period-appropriate homophobia distress you, be aware that all of the above may well appear here. I've toned it down from the period rhetoric for my own comfort levels, but.

Oh my _god_, is this author's note long enough?

(Apparently not. More at the end.)

Onward.

**Inspired by The Road to Santiago, by Heather Dale. **

* * *

Rated: T for language. Future parts will be higher for violence and sexual situations (awww yeah)

**August, 1201. The south of France.**

"You have no proof that this 'Magda' of yours even exists."

William ignored his brother. He let the familiar words of argument wash over and around him, a refrain almost soothing in the late summer heat. Sweat stung the backs of his knees and his neck under his coarse wool robe, the broad-brimmed hat keeping off the worst of the sun. His scrip thumped against his hip in rhythm with his steps, the pewter shrine badges stitched to the bag's flap jingling in time. The road was a clear one this time, the deep cart-ruts that ran down the centre of the hard-packed earth easily avoided.

"She exists. The legends say that the shrine of the Virgin at Siena has always been tended by a seer, from a family of seers and miracle workers." He made his usual reply, because Thomas expected it. His walking stick slid in his hand, the wood smooth from use and warm from his skin and the sun. "If even half the stories are true, then one of them will be able to help me." The gentle buzzing of insects filled in the silence when he stopped speaking.

"They could have chosen a better location for their shrine. We could have been halfway to Compostela by now. Think of it, Will-" Thomas spread his arms wide, his hand narrowly missing William's ear as he dodged. "Sand beaches, ripe peaches and figs falling off the trees, warm sun..." and he was off again, treading the well-worn paths of the debate.

"You've had more than enough sun already," William snorted. "It's gone to your head." He leaned away from his brother as Thomas gesticulated wildly once more.

As close as they had always been, twins born of the same womb, this journey of his had brought them closer together yet, every word predictable and action comforting in its sameness. And they had another month and a half to go, the Via Francigena winding before and behind them in equal measure.

William picked uneasily at the red linen cross stitched on to the brown homespun of his pilgrim's robe, the blazon marking him as part of a faith he didn't share. The dark blue of Thomas' hose flashed beneath the hem of his tunic, vestiges of a world they'd left behind.

"Stop fussing with your clothes; anyone would think you didn't feel comfortable in your holy vows." Thomas' voice held a warning and a sneer at the same time, a trick that he seemed to have learned in infancy.

"They're _not_ comfortable," William retorted, but he forced his hand to drop, resting uneasily on the leather strap of his scrip. "And I wish there was some other way to pass safely. I always feel like we're going to be struck down for heretics and liars." He cast a suspicious glance heavenward, but no lightning came from the clear blue sky. A bird circled lazily overhead, caught an updraft and was gone. Was that a good omen?

Thomas shrugged, unconcerned. He twirled his hat in his hand, the sun shining silver off his hair, still so pale blond that it could pass for white. William had been born the same way, another white-blond twin, twenty minutes after his brother. The only distinction between them had been the caul that had covered William's face in a translucent shroud.

William's hair and eyes had darkened almost immediately, until now, twenty-one years later, the twins were like block-print reversals of each other; mirrored souls. As opposite as they were, one could not exist without the other.

"Then you have three choices, little brother," Tom suggested, glancing sideways with a sardonic smile.

Fine; let him be cryptic. William could play along. "And what are those?"

Thomas grinned wide, turned on his heel so he was half-walking half-dancing backward along the ridge between the cart-ruts. "Be burned for a heretic, a witch or a sodomite. And if any of those come to pass," he pointed at William, his eyes laughing, "you're on your own."

"Do you _mind_?" The point of fear lanced through him, sharp and bright. William whipped his head around, but no-one was visible, either on the road or in the trees that lined either side. "You can't just go _saying_ those things."

Thomas was already gone, restless as ever, jogging ahead to peer around the sharp bend in the road. "There's a town just ahead," he reported as he came back, bouncing on his toes, the dust spotted yellow on the dark leather of his well-worn shoes. "What does your precious guidebook say to that? We should stop here," Thomas decided with a firm nod. "Think of it. They'll have cheese, fresh bread, good beer – all we've got left are apples and water, and that's beginning to give me gutrot."

It was dangerous, especially since they were on a quiet section of the Via. They'd not be used to taking in pilgrims like the larger cities, and that meant curiosity. _Where are you from? Where are you going? Tell us about your travels._ Too many chances to slip and make a mistake.

"It would be better to keep going," William said. "We've no money to pay for all your cheese and beer, and the Codex said that the next hospice is no more than two more hours' walk. We can be there by nightfall easily."

"Damn your all-holy book," Thomas cursed with casual ease. "Why eat pilgrims' alms and sleep on boards when we can spend the night in a real bed if we play this properly? We go in, you work a miracle, we get a chance to shake off the road dust for the night and sleep on a mattress away from the rats. It's simple." He clapped William companionably on the shoulder. As if things were that easy.

"I think taking advantage of honest townsfolk defeats the purpose of a pilgrimage," William replied dryly. His blood chilled a little at the thought of 'working a miracle,' as he so casually put it.

It wasn't as though he could control it the way Thomas wanted him to. The power surged under his skin at the thought, hungered to be released. It bubbled and sparked under his skin sometimes, seemed like a living thing as it coiled through his dreams.

What would it do if he gave in one day, let go all his control and simply let it ... out? The idea sent chills through him as much as it did fire, the longing and fear twined together and inseparable.

"Then it's a good thing we're not real pilgrims, isn't it?" Thomas grabbed him by the hand and laced his fingers between Will's as he pulled him along, tight and secure. The gloom that had begun to settle over the world lifted, the contact grounding him back down to the earth, connecting him to something solid and real.

Tom would never let him fall.

* * *

Tom would, however, manage to introduce him as a 'holy man' within five minutes of their arrival, and in less than an hour he found himself at a child's bedside, her face flushed red with fever where she lay on the straw-ticked pallet. Her parents stood in the door, the farmer's face deeply lined with suspicion and his wife's hands shaking. The wet cloth she had been using to salve her daughter's forehead lay forgotten on the sideboard. The late afternoon sun slanted brokenly through cracks in the closed shutters, dust motes dancing in the slivers of light. It highlighted rather than relieved the oppressive stillness of the sickroom.

He couldn't do this. What if something went wrong? She was a tiny little mite, maybe six years old. All he could see when he looked down was Jacob, his brow beaded with sweat and his eyes dark with fear, hands trembling between Mother's as the fever had taken him. This little one was blonde, not dark, a girl and not a boy, but the rest of it was so very familiar.

His magic had burst forth for Jacob as well, but in the end it hadn't mattered.

He couldn't do this.

Tom laid a hand on William's shoulder, squeezed it firmly. "You can," he murmured. "Remember what Samson said. It's not you. It's God working through you."

It would have helped more if he thought Thomas believed a word of it.

William took a breath. The second one came easier on the heels of the first, and then the third unlocked the knot sitting in the centre of his chest. He nodded.

He crossed himself because it was what they expected to see, a gesture that was as meaningless as all the Latin incantations he'd memorized years ago.

The girl's chest heaved as he pressed his palms down against her sweat-drenched body, the linen of her shift stuck to her fever-wracked form. He sank deep into himself where his curse ran and sparked and licked at his bones, the words of his prayers silent on his moving lips.

- _Mi Sheberakh Avoteinu: Avraham, Yitzhak, v'Yaakov / May the Holy Blessed One overflow with compassion / I want her to heal. IwanthertohealIwant-_

Blue light flared behind and before his eyes, fire consuming his bones and the world shattered and reformed.

There was a gasp, not his own, and when he opened his eyes the girl was looking back up at him with an expression of surprise and delight. Her forehead was still beaded with sweat but her eyes were clear, the pink fading from her cheeks even as they watched. She smiled and Tom let out a breath that he would never admit he had been holding and the farmer and his wife were alight with joy.

For a moment before the exhaustion claimed him it seemed that he was not cursed at all, but blessed.

* * *

There was an inn in the town, amazingly enough, a small house at one end of the small collections of buildings that made up the town. Thomas had 'the miracle man' ensconced in a chair in the common room in short order. William slumped in his corner, hood pulled low over his brow to block the worst of the light. It would take a little time for the strength to return to his limbs and the bee-buzzing to fade from his mind. Would that be something the shrine-maid could help him overcome?

And did he _want_ to overcome the problems, or be rid of his curse altogether and have a vague chance at a normal life?

"And what sins have _you_ committed, pilgrim, to put you on the road seeking an indulgence?" The dark-haired daughter of the innkeeper leaned over the bar as she spoke to Thomas, her tunic laced snug across her full chest. She was pretty enough, if you cared for that sort of thing, and Thomas obviously did. William folded his arms and sank lower in his chair.

"I am as pure and innocent as a newborn," Thomas teased her back, resting his elbows on the bar and leaning in himself. "My vows were purely for practical reasons."

"Have you not taken the cross, then?" She eyed him with curiosity and sparked interest.

"I? No, certainly not. I've taken up the robe and staff to accompany my brother. He travels to a shrine in the east and I've come along to make sure he doesn't hurt himself along the way. As you can see, he needs all the help that he can find."

She laughed, the tinkling of bells. William rolled his eyes beneath the folds of his hood.

Thomas' voice was sharper when he replied, a shift only William would notice. He shifted in his chair a little and tried not to look as though he were listening. "Why do you ask?"

"Only because there is a camp of them not far from here; father thought you might be en route to join their march." She slid a pair of mugs across the bar and Thomas wrapped his hands around one to take a deep draught.

"How far?" He asked, setting down the mug and wiping the foam from his mouth with the back of his hand.

"About ten miles; Jehan brought the news this morning. I expect they'll be further on their way by tomorrow. Perhaps their company plans to pass by Siena? Surely it will be safer to travel with many than with two. They say the roads in Burgundy are thick with bandits who prey upon the unwary."

A dark curl had slipped loose from under the girl's linen cap; Thomas reached out to tangle it between two fingers. She glanced at the door, but didn't pull away. "Don't worry about our safety; we've skill enough between us to take on any comers."

"Now there's a fair offer-" Her voice dropped and William stopped paying attention.

Crusaders on the road; that could mean anything from twenty riders and squires up to an encampment of twenty thousand, and all of them fired with zealotry and battle-lust. England had been spared the worst, but everyone had heard the stories. The flashing of stone-sharpened steel and the bludgeoning of stones; synagogues and homes set to the torch; the women – _god, the women, and girls barely old enough to understand_ – the pounding of horses' hooves and shouts of 'Christ-killers' that pierced the blackness of night and left nothing but bleeding corpses and ash behind.

Crusaders were to be avoided at all costs.

And Thomas was still flirting. "Don't tip your eyes his way, fair one; my brother's taken orders and will have no woman's touch. But I have not."

_Oh, for the love of-_

She didn't seem terribly put out by his implications, and when William glanced up in vague disdain, she was turning for the stairs with a crooked finger in beckon.

"Then come, fair pilgrim; let _us_ pray…"

* * *

The sun had hit the horizon by the time the barmaid reappeared at her post and William was thoroughly fed up with the press of eyes upon him, the endless circling around of the curious in the common room. And if he had to continue to feign sleep or invent one more excuse as to why he could neither cure a bunion nor ensure a good dry autumn, he was going to find the nearest well and pitch Thomas down it.

He made his fast excuses and headed for their room, but not before the townsfolk had extracted a promise from him to bless their fields before they left the next morning. It couldn't do any harm to say a prayer, he supposed; it would give them hope, and hope was a precious commodity in times like this.

Thomas was sitting on the bed retying the points of his hose when William let the door swing closed behind him. William glared at him, more for the principle of the thing than anything else; Tom's self-satisfied smile did not slip an iota.

"At least tell me we can come back this way without finding a surprise next year?" William asked, dropping to sit beside his brother on the bed. He pulled his knees up to his chest, an old habit, and Thomas snickered as he stood.

"There are ways to please a fair lady without running that sort of risk, brother dear. If I thought you'd any interest in learning, I'd be happy to explain…"

"Go to hell." William groaned without venom, the feel of the bed beneath him a seduction he couldn't resist. He dropped his staff and hat, flopped backward with a low and thorough groan. The ends of the straw ticking poked him through the thin bedding and his robe, but it gave way beneath his body and the low droning ache in his muscles relaxed in glorious relief.

"Leave me some space, brat," Thomas ordered from the other side of the room, his robe and shirt loose around his waist as he washed in the basin. William muttered, too tired now to link together words in an order that made much sense.

The last thing he felt before darkness rose up to claim him was the mattress settling beside him under Tom's weight. _Safe here. Sleep now._

* * *

Rain had not been in the sky when they left the town in the morning, but it had found them now. The clouds had covered the sky by mid-afternoon, and by the time the sun sank toward the horizon the road had become a muddy cesspool, every step taking twice the effort that it should. The cold water beat down upon them, running in rivulets off the brims of their hats and pooling the folds of their robes, splashing up their legs and soaking through even the tough boot leather.

"This is your fault, somehow," Thomas moaned as he trudged through the mud, dashing water from his face and peering into the storm-darkened gloom.

"It's not my fault," William retorted. The crossroads couldn't be that far ahead; it was supposed to be eight miles from the town, and while they'd been slowed by the rain it couldn't have been by that much. The crossroads, and there would be a sign to show them the way to turn, and there was a chapel only a little ways further that would give them shelter for the night. "I've never been able to bring down a storm, you know that."

"What I know is that you blessed their fields, and now it's raining for the first time in weeks. Your fault."

"That makes no sense," William shot back, and there – the sign for the crossroads loomed out of the darkness. Was he imagining things or was the rain letting up? He paused, lifted his face to the sky for a moment to test. Yes; the dark clouds were moving on, scuttling out of the way in the wind, and the hard rain faded to a gentler sprinkle.

"Whatever you just did," Thomas snorted, "keep doing it."

"I keep telling you, it doesn't work that way."

The crossroads was right before them, and William's heart lifted at the sight. Now to find the sign that marked the Via, and they would be on their way to shelter and possibly a chance to dry their clothes and eat something. Things were improving markedly already.

"Is this the sign?" Thomas crouched at the edge of the road, poking at something in the ditch there. A post lay half-covered in the small tree that had fallen across it, both cracked and the marker pointing haphazardly into the woods. "Any idea which way it was supposed to go?"

Damnation! William gnawed on his lip as he looked down one way, and then the other; the gathering darkness made it difficult to tell. One way led to the chapel, the other – where?

There was a glow low on the horizon off to the right; would that be torches in the window of the chapel? Either way, the light promised fire and fire promised warmth and dry feet, and that was enough to make up his mind. "That way," William pointed.

"Are you certain?"

"No, but we have to pick something. Unless you want to sleep in the mud tonight."

"That way it is."

It took less than a quarter of an hour for William to realize that he had made a very bad, very wrong decision. The light had come from fires, yes, but not torches in a window or a brazier in a great hall. No, it came from a campfire in the middle of a circle of tents, each one with banners hanging beside. The encampment was a riot of colour and cheer, boys barely old enough to be apprenticed running about with armour pieces and polishing rags, with strapping and harnesses, or bashing at each other with wooden swords. If the count of the tethered horses meant anything, there were twenty knights here, perhaps a few more, foot soldiers, squires and followers rounding out the group to nigh-on one hundred.

And all of them bore the cross upon their breasts.

Crusaders.

Thomas, incautious as always, stepped into the light before William could take hold of him, cornered the first man he saw and made his reverences.

"Whose camp is this, good man?"

"Come and be welcome, pilgrim." The knight eyed them both with a speculative gleam that changed to vague dismissal at their poverty of garb and gear. "We are pledged to the Count of Methingau, young Gregory. He has taken the cross and rides for Venice."

William swallowed hard against the lump of fear in his throat, even as Thomas moved further into the camp, drawn by the light and warmth of the fire. He grabbed for Tom's sleeve, drew him close even as curious eyes turned to watch their approach. "We should go, Tom," he hissed as quietly as he could.

"And sleep in the mud?" Thomas turned his words back on him, and gestured at the sun, now vanishing below the horizon entirely. "I'd rather take my chances with wolves at the fire than wolves in the forest. At least these ones are obliged to offer us shelter, and there's a chance to get dry."

The grand tent opened before William could reply. A man strode out, about their age, but wholly unlike any man William had ever seen before.

His hair shone as gold, red reflecting off it from the light cast by the fire and the torches that surrounded the tent. He was clean-shaven, a jaw that could only have been carved from marble by the loving hand of a besotted artist. His surcote was the green of summer, rich and deep, a red cross sewn to the left breast. The gold of his brooch and the chasing on his scabbard marked him as a man of wealth. He held the flap of the tent for a moment and surveyed the camp, everything in the set of his broad shoulders and easy movements suggesting a bearing of confidence and surety that William could only dream about.

He would dream about this man tonight, and tomorrow, and possibly every night thereafter.

William stood transfixed, even as Thomas moved around him and began speaking with the men about the fire. He was still, the steam starting to curl from the bottom of his robe where the heat of the flames dried them, his hair dark and dripping, plastered to his head. And then this man, this golden idol who could only be Count Gregory –

Or perhaps not. The man turned to speak to someone still inside the tent, and bowed his head in reverence. The banners around the great tent were red with a yellow lattice, not green, and _his _surcote had a golden dragon blazoned on the back. The dragon moved and shimmered in the reflection of the fire, seemed almost to spread its wings and yearn for flight.

It was a distortion of the darkness and William's own exhaustion; nothing more.

Then the Crusader looked. He looked across the fire and he saw William, and his eyes were _blue._

_Oh._

A jolt surged through William's body, more powerful than any use of his curse, an energy that wracked and wrecked him and left him utterly dumb.

Later, much later, after tears and blood had been spilled in equal measure and the bodies of good men fertilized the fields of war, he would still remember that moment and swear it was true. That he had heard the words deep within him, clearer than church bells or thought or even the swelling crescendos of his magic.

_I am for you._

* * *

**End notes:**

**Follow me on tumblr as ardatli**

- Being "born in the caul" meant that an infant was born with a piece of the amniotic membrane covering his or her face. In medieval Europe, this was believed to be a good omen, a sign of future greatness, and to grant the infant powers against the forces of evil. The dried caul itself was believed to be an extremely powerful good-luck charm, and a talisman that would protect the bearer from drowning.

- The Via Francigena is a set of interlinked roads and highways between Kent, in England, and the city of Rome. Sections of the Via have been used as pilgrimage roads to holy sites of Catholicism since at least the 9th century CE.

- Regulations protecting pilgrims grew with the explosions of popularity of the pilgrimage in the eleventh and twelfth centuries. Pilgrims wore visibly identifiable marks of their vows – a wool robe and a walking stick, and later on, wide-brimmed hats and pilgrim's badges from the shrines they'd visited. In return, towns along pilgrimage roads were obliged to provide base levels of hospitality and shelter, pilgrims were exempt from tolls on toll roads, and had various other unique freedoms of passage.

- The 'codex' is the Codex Calixtinus, a twelfth-century travel guide for those walking on pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela. Book five of this codex listed all the hazards pilgrims were likely to run into on their travels, including which rivers were safest to drink from, where hospices and shrines could be found, and which roads were heaviest with bandit activity.

- The shrine of the Virgin at Siena is fictional. Siena is along the Francigena, but I made up the specific church. As far as I know, anyway!

- The closest date I've been able to find for the development of the Mi Sheberach prayer (the prayer for healing) was "the Geonic Period," which dates between the sixth and eleventh centuries CE.

- Persecution of Jews rose sharply in Europe during the time of the Crusades, resulting in destruction of communities and mass slaughter. These persecutions included special clothing as determined by local sumptuary law, and restricted movements within and between regions. The Jews were not formally expelled from England, however, until 1290 CE (the first European expulsion).

- The earliest dates I've been able to find for the institution of identification badges for Jews outside of the Muslim world were 1215 (Spain), and 1217 (France).

- I stole Methingau – it existed as a county within the Holy Roman Empire, but was not an an independent one after 998 CE. This way, I'm not impinging too badly on real history by messing with the line of succession.


	2. Come and be Welcome

**The Dale Cycle **

**Part Two: Come And Be Welcome**

Inspired by: Come and be Welcome, by Heather Dale.

(As always, ffnet is nuking my coding. Follow me on Ao3 and on Tumblr under this same screen name to get links to the music.)

* * *

**August, 1201. South of France.**

The sounds of the company settling in for the night were as familiar and comforting to Theodore as his own breathing; the laughter of the squires about their work, the clinking of mail, the horses whickering quietly at their pasture. The heat of the day had given way to the damp chill of a late-summer evening, something the afternoon's rains had made worse. The fire blazed in the middle of camp, casting a warm glow over the tents that circled it.

He took a pull from his wineskin, the rich burn of the spiced wine warming him through from the inside out. He put it to his lips to take another, but it was grabbed away before he could tip it up. Theodore sighed, looked up with the tolerance borne of long-suffering as his friend's heavy arm fell around his shoulders. Gerhardt, all hair and a toothy smile, took a swig from the skin before pressing it back into his hand. He followed Theodore's gaze across the camp, lighting on the two strangers who had stumbled out of the dark forest only a few minutes before.

"They say there's a holy pilgrim in these parts," Gerhardt began, grabbing Theodore in a headlock. Theodore rocked with the movement, pushing him companionably in the side to force him off and away. Gerhardt laughed as he tumbled to the ground and sprawled there easily. The others joined them then, his Lordship Count Gregory; rangy, rusty-haired Barnabas; and Frederick Kneebiter.

(He was only an inch or two shorter than the rest, and he had never quite forgiven Gerhardt for the way the byname had stuck.)

Theodore half-rose in respect, then dropped back to the ground as Gregory waved him off and sat. "Continue." Gregory stole Theodore's wineskin, and he surrendered it without complaint.

"They say he's a wandering friar who can work miracles," Gerhardt continued, saluting the others with an easy wave.

"Who says that, Gerhardt?" Theodore picked up the thread of the conversation, such as it was.

"'They' again," Barnabas snorted. "Do 'they' ever have names, my friend?"

Gerhardt was undeterred, leaning close to deliver his information. He nodded at the two young men across the fire, one dark and one fair.

"Miracles like healing the sick, bringing the rain - maybe even raising the dead." He dropped his voice low and grinned darkly, like he was telling ghost stories to a pack of squires. "I heard he travels with his brother on this very road. What say you, your Lordship?" He raised an eyebrow at Gregory, who had pushed back the fur-lined sleeves of his robe and was carving a slice out of an apple with his knife. "I think we've found ourselves a holy man."

Theodore followed Gerhardt's gaze and watched them for a moment. The fair-haired one was perched on a log talking to some of the footsoldiers, his eyes wandering back to his brother every few minutes. The longer Theodore watched the more it became apparent that he was listening more than he was speaking, for all his mouth kept moving.

But the other… he was a huddled ball of misery and wet cloth, with a stubborn set to his jaw that refused to admit weakness. He had taken up a place by the fire as well, out of the path of any of the others. He watched the fire and his brother, his brother watched the camp… and Theodore watched them both.

Gregory ate the apple slice directly off the blade of his knife. "He doesn't look much like a friar to me," he said, an edge of a sneer in his voice. "More like a drowned rat."

Of course that would be his response. Theodore looked up at the others from where he sat. Their expressions ranged from mocking to disinterested, and he could not help but be irritated by it. As though they had not all been in need of assistance at some point in their lives! "All I see is a man," he suggested. "Cold, wet, tired and no doubt hungry."

"You have a woman's heart, Theodore, all soft inside," Gregory jeered. Barnabas and Frederick snickered. "I have a nursemaid instead of a general. Shall we bring swaddling-clothes to the battlefield?"

Theodore refused to flinch; he shrugged it off and elbowed Frederick instead when he kept chuckling long after the moment was over. Frederick yelped and threw an elbow back, but Gregory stuck a leg between them before it could become more than a token spat. "Hold, idiots," he commanded lazily.

Frederick clapped him on the shoulder companionably. Theodore schooled his expression into amused tolerance, a wry smile tangling on his lips, and waited for Gregory to finish out his orders. "Go to him, then," was the word that came down. "Learn what you can. See if we've stumbled upon a good luck charm for this voyage after all." With that and a summary wave, he was dismissed.

His façade slipped as he turned around the corner of the tent, his irritation showing at the edges. "I'd rather have a 'woman's heart' than be a heartless, brainless-" Theodore muttered darkly and seditiously. He was intercepted halfway to his tent by a shadow looming out of the darkness.

"Pay him no mind." It was Heinrich who caught his arm, a great Teutonic bear of a man who resisted all pressures to trim the beard that billowed yellow from his cheeks and chin. He had ever been a friend, even now that he was theoretically one of the knights under Theodore's command. "What he calls weakness, the rest of the world calls compassion. We need more leaders with a little of that."

"Our liege lord doesn't agree with you." Theodore tipped his head toward the gathering at the great tent, not letting his eyes flicker over as well. He was high enough in Gregory's esteem now that he could get away with a good amount, but there was such a thing as pushing his luck too far.

Heinrich tipped his hand back and forth between them, his other resting easily on the hilt of his broadsword. "The young Count has a long way to go before he is half the man his father was." He kept his voice low, an earthy rumble that was as comforting now as it had been ten years ago when a freshly-dubbed knight had taken a nervous young squire under his wing. "He will need us as friends to continue what his father should still be here to do. In the mean time, patience."

Theodore nodded slowly, took the moment to breathe and centre, his mood lifting at the approval returned to him in Heinrich's eyes. "Good lad," Heinrich murmured, then grinned. "I mean 'good lad, _sir'_," he teased, with a twinkle in his eye. "Be about your business."

It only took a moment to collect his cloak and bowl from the saddlebags lying beside his bedroll; another wineskin, this time from Gerhardt's tent. One last stop beside the kettle simmering over the cookfire to dip out a bowlful of stew, and he made his way back through the camp. The stranger huddled, still damp, beside the fire. The rain steamed off his robe as he sat there, feet as close to the heat as he could get them without his shoe leather shrinking and cracking. The rising vapours made him look, for a moment, like he could truly be otherworldly.

Theodore was staring and he should not; had only a moment before the pilgrim looked up and caught him at it. The pilgrim's hair was long and curled against the back of his neck as it dried, the tendrils misbehaving and sticking up in all directions. His close-cropped beard suited him, emphasized the line of his jaw and contrasted darkly against his skin. His lower lip was full and pouting slightly, begging to be kissed, or bitten until his skin flushed red-

Those were thoughts far more dangerous even than his grumbles about the Count, and Theodore pushed them _back _and _away_ and _down. _And that, of course, was the moment the pilgrim looked up and saw him standing there.

He had beautiful eyes. Honey-brown and framed by dark lashes, but wary and suspicious, as though he had seen Theodore's sinful fantasies.

That was foolish. No man could read another's mind.

"Here-" He crossed the final steps between them and held out the full bowl. The scent of the stew rose from it, rich and thick and warm; not the sort of thing that would be welcome on a summer's day, but the evenings this time of year were cold.

"You look as though you could use a hot meal," he continued. The pilgrim was looking up at him with wary eyes, something else unreadable there. Of course; Theodore was a stranger, and he was tall enough that even standing there could be read as looming. He sat down on the log beside him instead, not waiting for invitation or permission. He held the bowl out until the pilgrim was forced to take it.

"And something to wear. At least until your robe has a chance to dry." The brother was already out of his, hanging it on a tree branch near the fire, his hose and tunic surprisingly well-made for a pair of pilgrims travelling without retinue. There _was_ more to these two than first appeared. Theodore laid his cloak between them on the log, the thick brown wool soft from felting and inviting to the touch. "Take it. At least for tonight."

The pilgrim frowned and shook his head, black stands clinging to the side of his neck. He ran a hand through his hair to unstick it, looking unaware of his own motion. "No thank you, m'lord," he replied politely, though the half-breath's pause before 'm'lord' was telling. His accent was neither French nor Burgundian; English?

"Your pious humility doesn't need to extend to death from the ague," Theodore pointed out, "and I have another. Take it. My name is Theodore," he added on impulse. He braced his arms on the log and stretched his legs out toward the fire, his leather riding boots silhouetted darkly against the light.

There was another pause, and when he looked back the pilgrim was watching him, studying him, eyes travelling over the lines of his face, his hair, the heraldry on the back of his surcote. Their eyes met and held, and there was something in the depths that made Theodore's breath catch, a spark of blue that ignited and then faded away. Had it been real or only his imagination?

"William," the pilgrim stammered after a moment. "My name is William. My brother is Thomas." The act of speaking seemed to break some kind of dam with him and the tension in his arms began to subside. He scrubbed the palms of his hands against his knees, then blinked down at the wet fabric in disgust. "Thank you. For the meal, I mean, and the cloak. You weren't obliged to do that."

"No obligation, though the stew will get cold if you stare at it rather than eat," Theodore pointed out with a half-smile. "Is it Brother William, or Father?" He had no sign of a tonsure, but that didn't necessarily mean anything.

"Neither. It's just William." William fumbled in his bag for a moment, seemingly all thumbs and the bowl coming close to tipping twice. Theodore caught it just as it began to go over, his fingers brushing William's as he did. There was that spark again, William's skin warm against his, hints of calluses on the side of his fingers, and a sudden awareness of the heat of this body next to his. He managed to keep the bowl balanced in his hands despite the unsteadiness in his chest. William actually laughed, a quick, bright and nervous sound, but his eyes were pleased.

"You've got it backwards," Theodore said solemnly. "The stew is for eating. The _cloak_ is for wearing."

And there was a real laugh, startled and sublime. William's face changed when he relaxed, the hard lines of mistrust fading for a moment. Theodore wanted to see that look in his eyes again, and often.

William's gaze darted over Theodore's shoulder then, and his smile faded a little; Theodore turned to see Thomas watching them.

The moment was gone.

William left Theodore holding the bowl for a moment while he stripped off his sodden robe. His knee-length tunic underneath was only barely damp, a dark madder-red that matched his hose. Those were wet and spotted with mud, and they clung to his calves in a way that should not _must not _ - be as distracting as it was.

Theodore signaled and one of the boys ran up to take the robe. He hung it over a branch to dry along with others, and William shrugged the dry cloak over his shoulders. His shivering stopped after a moment and Theodore sat in silence while he ate. How much of what Gerhardt had said could possibly be true? If William were a miracle worker or a saint, why would he not ask for fair skies and calm weather during his travels? It was the sort of thing Theodore could imagine himself asking for, especially if he had a company following him. Think of it; the ability to make the march clear, to lose no-one to bogs or stagnant water, or cold.

It was every commander's dream. Or if it wasn't, it should be.

William set his bowl aside and Theodore lifted the wineskin in invitation. "Assuming that you drink, of course. Unless you've taken vows against it?" There was no telling what might set a pilgrim on the road, or what fasts they might include with their penitential vows.

"I drink." He still looked at Theodore with a level of mistrust though, and didn't reach for the skin. He moistened his lower lip and the firelight caught the gleam, and perhaps it was time for Theodore to reconsider what he was doing before he found himself committing more sins than he could make penance for in a lifetime.

He unstopped the wineskin and drank from it himself, not looking away from William's eyes. He wiped the spout with his hand and held it out again. _See? No poison._

William took it and he placed his mouth where Theodore's had been. He closed his eyes when he drank, tilting his head up, baring his throat to view. His adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed, the firelight licking golden off the column of skin.

Theodore breathed out, ragged and broken, and forced his eyes away. Thomas was crossing to join them, half-eaten chunk of bread and cheese in his hand, and the intrusion was almost a relief. He nodded to William's brother – no, twin, he had to be – and bade him sit. When William passed the wineskin back, he handed it to Thomas and received a nod and glimmer of a smile in return. He did not miss how Thomas sat, on the ground at William's feet, his crossed knees extending into the space between them as a barrier of sorts between William and Theodore.

"Tell me," Theodore began, once Thomas had satisfied his thirst and passed the skin back to him again. "Where are you bound for? Do you intend to walk all the way to Rome?" He took a drink and the heat that coiled low in his gut was enough to mask anything else that might be trembling there.

_Good._

Thomas shook his head, the easy slump of his body somehow seeming unreal. Maybe it was the way his gaze kept flickering about between their faces, never resting on any one for long, or the unconscious drumming of his fingers against his thigh. It was William who answered, his fingers coiling in the hem of his borrowed cloak. "We go to the shrine of the Virgin in Siena; a week or so shorter of a walk."

"Not so you'd know it," Thomas snorted from below, and William looked at him with fond exasperation. "What is one more week, after all, when it's three months there and three months back again?"

"Plus the winter," Theodore added, glancing between them. "Surely you don't intend to return this way in the winter months. You would never make it home alive. If I may ask, where is home for you?"

There was a pause, so brief that he thought perhaps he had imagined it, then William spoke again. "London. Will that be a problem for your lord?"

"The Holy Roman Emperor has no quarrels with King John," Theodore answered carefully. The tides of these things were always shifting, of course, and the technicalities with the current prince and the regent and all such issues of the court were hardly any business of his. But there was no open war at the moment, which was about all anyone could reasonably desire. "Nor does the Count of Methingau."

"Then we shall get along famously," Thomas said, and William's toe caught him just below the shoulder. He let out a huff of air and shot a glare at his brother, and Theodore bent his head to hide the grin. "What about you, Sir Knight?" Thomas asked, rubbing his side with an exaggerated gesture. Every word out of his mouth sounded like a challenge. "Where does this fine company go?"

That was no secret, certainly. "We make for Chasteaux," Theodore answered. "To meet Boniface and the French coming south from Soissons. Once we are assembled, we make our way to the ships at Venice. From there, we are bound for the Holy Land."

And this time he was watching for it; he did not miss the shadow that clouded William's face at the mention. Perhaps he was regretting his vows for Siena now that there was a proper Crusade on the march? Surely whatever he was seeking at the shrine, he would find triple that in the sacred walls of Jerusalem itself.

"Come with us," Theodore offered, with a quick glance over his shoulder at Gregory sitting with the others. Thomas and William looked hesitant both, and he pushed on. "The roads aren't safe for two men travelling alone. We can take you as far as Piacenza before we part company."

Some silent conversation passed between the brothers, William's face open and pleading, Thomas' perplexed.

Theodore wanted to hold his breath. He took another drink instead.

He could not say why it was so important that they not part yet – rather, he could _think_ it, but never, ever admit it... But it was more than base desire to keep William's company. There was something about him, a power that thrummed deep beneath the skin and flickered in the depths of his eyes. Both twins had the eyes of older men, ancient souls peering out of young men's faces.

Gregory had asked him to watch for signs and omens. Surely the strange appearance of these odd twins was exactly that.

Thomas shrugged and relented with a small huff, ending their wordless conversation. "We appear to be travelling on the same road," he said, and William made a faint and anxious smile. "We would be hard-pressed to avoid you."

"Good." A thrill swept through him then, one that did not bear closer examination. "I'll inform his Lordship." Theodore pushed against the log and levered himself easily to his feet, sweeping his hands over the length of his surcote to let it lie flat. William began to stand as well, to peel the cloak from around his shoulders, and Theodore waved him off. "Keep it for tonight; you'll need something dry to guard you against the damp earth. Unless you've a tent packed into one of those satchels," he teased gently, hoping to find that smile again.

"Yes, my blessed bag with the power of holding," William replied, his face utterly still and serious. He patted the leather affectionately. "I had it off a monk in Lyons who swore that it contained not only a tent but a kitchen and privy as well."

There was a pause.

Theodore blinked, unsure, then the light in the back of those dark brown eyes gave William away. The three of them burst out laughing, Thomas' chuckle more pointed than the others. "He had you for a moment," Thomas pointed out unnecessarily, but Theodore could not bring himself to take offense.

"Never," Theodore insisted instead, shaking his head, which only made William laugh more.

"Theodore!" The call came from across the fire, and the laughter died. When he looked, Gregory was beckoning him over.

He was loathe to go, to walk away from this circle of growing comfort and easy amiability to return to Gregory and the rest of his men. But he had his duty, and lingering here with the twins too long would cause more problems for all of them than it would solve.

"I'll leave you to your meal, then," he nodded in respect and turned to go.

The weight of at least three pairs of eyes sat on him as he crossed the camp back to the great tent. But there was only one that he cared to think about. Tomorrow would come, and another tomorrow, and he would have time to learn more about the twins, about William; to engage him in conversation, earn his trust and watch him unfold, smile, lose the wariness that made him seem half-wild.

They could be great friends, of that he was certain. That would have to be enough.

Perhaps inviting them along had not been one of his better ideas.

He could not find the strength within him to regret it.

* * *

**End notes:**

- "The ague" is an archaic term originally from Old French for an illness that came with a high fever. It became used for malaria specifically in the sixteenth century before passing out of use almost entirely in the nineteenth.

- "Homage" was a legal provision of the medieval feudal system, carried out through public ceremony. A vassal who swore homage to a lord owed him military service (or to send men in lieu of service himself), as well as his permanent loyalty. In return, the liege-lord promised protection and support. Fealty was a lesser version of homage, usually performed through an intermediary of the court, and not requiring military service. Both required an oath of fealty.

An example of a standardized form of fealty oath, from 10th century England:

Form of fealty in the Laws of Alfred, Guthrum, and Edward the Elder, from Thatcher: The Library of Original Sources, Vol. IV: The Early Medieval World

_Thus shall a man swear fealty oaths._

_By the Lord, before whom this relic is holy, I will be to _ faithful and true, and love all that he loves, and shun all that he shuns, according to God's law, and according to the world's principles, and never, by will nor by force, by word nor by work, do ought of what is loathful to him; on condition that he keep me as I am willing to deserve, and all that fulfil that our agreement was, when I to him submitted and chose his will._

All of Gregory's knights are his vassals, and have sworn **homage** to him through similar words. The squires and footsoldiers would be **in fealty** to Gregory by association, having sworn oaths of fealty to their particular knights and commanders.

You could swear fealty to multiple lords (and hope they never disagree), but homage to only one.

It was widely understood that breaking an oath of fealty or homage would result in death, either from God's hand or the hand of one's former liege. They could, however, be mutually dissolved and the vassal released from service.


	3. Rose and Lion

**The Dale Cycle**

**Part Three: Rose and Lion**

**Rated M for violence.**

Inspired by Rose and Lion, by Heather Dale.

ffnet hates my coding. Come find me on tumblr at 'ardatli' or on the AO3 for links to the music for these fics.

* * *

_We serve as those before us, and we teach it to our young;_

_And fair the blooms who face the sky that from our soil have sprung._

_And oft our deeds are roared aloud when honour's praise is sung_

_And the Rose and Lion stand and serve the King._

**Early September, 1201. The south of France.**

A week on the road with the Count of Methengau and his men, and Thomas was still catching William with his eyes trained upon Theodore.

When they woke in the mornings William scanned the men breaking down the camp until he found him. When they marched, Theodore's green-clad form upon his sleek bay horse was ever in his sights, whether he fell back to speak with William and Thomas or not. When he rode on ahead again to rejoin his fellows William's shoulders would sag a little in disappointment. Only then would he speak to Thomas with a voice untainted by distraction.

Because his idiot brother could not lose his mind for the first time over a student or a farm boy close to home. Or – for forbid things be _easy_ – any one of the girls that their parents had arranged for him to meet.

No, his idiot brother had to find himself besotted with the knight-marshal of a foreign noble, a Christian man sworn to the violent profession of his faith.

William might make noise regarding Thomas' sense of self-preservation, but his own was worse by far.

Idiot.

* * *

"Is it true, sir, that your brother can turn lead to gold?"

The boy hanging over the tree branch by his knees looked to be about thirteen, still slight and small but with a voice that cracked when he spoke. He bore the dragon-badge of Theodore's arms on a favour looped around his belt. A squire, then. He stared at Thomas, upside down. The camp bustled around them as the sun set, tents raising and the pile of firewood growing in the centre.

"If that were true," Thomas replied, some amusement spooling through his voice despite his intent, "do you think we would be walking with you?"

"Even rich men make pilgrimage, m'lord, if their sins be great enough." The boy grinned wide and flipped himself up to grab the branch with his hands. He hung there for a moment then let himself drop, landing easily on the grass.

Thomas snorted. "Well-played, boy. But no; William is no alchemist." At least, that was one that he had not yet consented to try. Better not to give them too many ideas.

"Arnould, m'lord. M'name is Arnould." Then that same name was being shouted across the camp and the boy turned to go. With a grin and a flash of a salute he was in motion, running across the campsite smoothly as a bird in flight.

* * *

"Is it true, sir, that the sun in England is always behind the clouds?"

"Yes," Thomas replied, glancing up at the boy as he walked. Arnould rode a small horse from Theodore's string, sitting the saddle as easily as if he had been born to it. And most likely he had. "The first time I saw sunlight was after we crossed the channel to France. It was shining out of King Phillip's arse."

Arnould threw back his head and laughed loud and long.

Thomas smiled.

* * *

Arnould was from Frisea, in the Low Countries. (_Awful cold in the winters; nothing like this at all, m'lord_).

His father was a knight (_served the old Count with Sir Marcus, m'lord; that was Sir Theodore's father, God rest his soul. And so when I was ready to be a page, he took me on. In honour of our fathers_).

And he took to Thomas like a duck to water, becoming a shadow that Thomas could not shake.

Not that he put much effort into trying.

* * *

"Sir Theodore says that I'm to study archery with Sir Barnabas next," Arnould reported from what had become his usual perch outside the small tent that Thomas had finally given in and bartered for. "That I've grown enough to use a longbow."

The squire's constant presence was familiar by now, his quick mind and keen curiosity piquing a kind of distant affection in Thomas that had been previously reserved for Aaron and for Jac-

For _Aaron_.

William alone of all his brothers held the whole of his heart.

"Do _you_ know how to shoot?" Arnould was persistent. If Thomas did not answer him now, he would face variations of the same question for at least the next two days.

"Well enough, but I'm no expert," Thomas admitted, pegging the last of the guidelines in place that held the tent upright. He sat back on his heels and grinned. "But I'll wager a penny that I can beat any shot of yours with a slingshot."

* * *

Thomas earned the penny fairly, knocking the apples from the tree in quick succession.

The brilliant smile on Arnould's face when Thomas offered to consider the penny payment for lessons to improve his aim was a better prize.

* * *

They made camp early one afternoon not far from Chasteaux. Gregory sent riders out to the town to resupply, the oxen growing lazy as the supply wagons they drew grew emptier. The French contingent was delayed. Outriders claimed to see the dust of their approach in the distance, but they were still two, perhaps three days out. It meant time to relax, to find local sources and resupply, to wash off the dust of the march and take their ease.

It took less than an hour for said ease-taking to become unbearably tedious. Once the tent was set and the necessaries accomplished, waterskins refilled from the stream, Thomas found himself adrift, William already elsewhere. Cheers and shouting rolled through the camp, the sounds of tournament and play, and for lack of anything better, Thomas found himself wandering in that direction.

The knights were assembled, half in surcotes and mail, half sitting by and watching. Theodore and Frederick were in the centre of the square thus formed, helms off and the squires arranged before them. Theodore's sword flashed bright in the sun as he demonstrated a measure, the squires following his lead with varying degrees of skill. Frederick paced the ranks, adjusting bodies and arms as he went, the wooden blades wielded by the younger boys coming perilously close to his face on more than one occasion.

They broke off into pairs after that and the sun flashed bright off of armour, blade and helm. Theodore stepped back and watched with critical eye, pointing first here and now there to indicate flaws or progress. It all looked the same to Thomas.

There was shade under his tree and the cheers and cat-calls of the crowd of fighting men blurred into itself after a while, until the squires were released, sweaty and in some cases, bruised from falls and blows. Frederick clapped Theodore on the back and said something Thomas could not hear, which earned him a blow across the shoulder in return. Laughter rose from the ranks as the two men faced off, faces wide with grins. Some of the men lounging there sat up, anticipation making the camp thrum with some new tension.

Theodore and Frederick traded lazy blows with wooden blades for a moment, before Theodore broke away and made a gesture. Within moments one of his squires, a young man surely close to knighthood himself, came forward with helm and blade and painted shield, the golden dragon fierce upon the green. Frederick's shield was white, a black wolf's head embossed upon it.

Their visors down and faces hidden, they circled each other, bodies tense and ready. A feint, a clash of sword-on-shield and then they parted again. Frederick feinted and Theodore did not flinch, and Thomas found himself leaning forward to watch despite himself. They clashed again, and then a third, voices drowned out by the ringing noise of steel on steel.

"Drache!" One of the squires began it and soon the rhythm spread. The scattered shouts from the watchers gave way to a steady chant, the pulse of the battle hammered out on shields with gloved fists and boot heels and the hilts of swords. "_Drache, Drache, Drache-_"

Theodore seemed to grow in size and hold his head higher under their approval and Frederick made an obscene gesture at the crowd. Frederick dropped his head and shoulders and rushed, and Theodore stepped aside more nimbly than seemed possible. Theodore swung at him as he passed, delivered a stinging blow to Frederick's buttocks with the flat of his great blade.

Frederick fell and made to rise again but Theodore was on him in an instant, sword left on the ground. He sat his plated knee on Frederick's chest to hold him in place, the weight of his body pressing him down into the sun-hot earth. Frederick flipped up his visor and made a sign to yield, and yet Theodore's fist rushed at his bare and unprotected face.

He stopped, less than a finger's width before Frederick's skin. Theodore, faceless behind his helm, uncurled one finger just enough to press the tip against Frederick's nose.

The roar that erupted was louder again than the chants of war had been, and Thomas snickered. He did not wipe the expression from his face when Arnould turned, laughter-bright, to catch his eye.

"Now back to work, the lot of you!" Theodore unbuckled his helm and pulled it off along with his arming cap, his yellow hair damp from sweat and sticking to his forehead. He pulled Frederick to his feet, and then drew his arm along his face, heedless of the metal and the mail, his smile a wild and joyous thing.

William was watching from the sidelines, half within the trees, his hood pulled up and his hands folded inside his sleeves. Thomas skirted the edge of the clearing to draw near to him, the crowd dispersing now that the entertainment was done.

A pair of pages ran past, wooden swords in hand and strings of their linen caps askew, their unbroken voices high and careless in their offenses.

"The Dragon will have those Saracen bastards on their knees!"

"Stand fast, you filthy heretic, and taste good Christian steel!"

Thomas flinched, the sun went behind a cloud, and the heat of the day fled from his bones. He stopped close beside William, who turned and acknowledged him with a nod.

"Taking in the view?" Thomas asked, his tone sharper than it should be. But there were circumstances.

"Thomas…" William's warning was not the exasperated rejoinder Thomas had half-expected. His voice was sad and a little broken, and Thomas peered beneath the hood. William's eyes were tired, dark shadows beneath them, and there was an ineffable sadness there.

Thomas abandoned all plans to tease or poke; William was no good outlet for his irritations like this. It would cause more harm than good were he to indulge. "What?" Thomas asked gently instead, and laid his hand on the back of William's neck. The wool of his robe was coarse beneath Thomas' hand.

William shook his head and looked again, and Thomas followed his eyeline back to where Theodore was laughing with his friends, passing a full waterskin between them. William turned away. "I'm trying to remember how to hate them," he said, and anger flared in Thomas at the sound of longing in his voice.

Theodore turned, casting his gaze over the camp, pausing only when he saw them.

No, not 'them.' _William_.

He fixed his gaze, seemed about to call out, and William drew himself taller under Thomas' hand. Then Gregory clapped a hand on Theodore's shoulder, he turned away, and William sagged back again, seemingly unaware of his own reactions.

For a moment, however brief, Thomas wished he had his brother's power. He would call it up and strike them down where they stood.

It was for the best, he reflected and not for the first time, that William had been the one with the gift. Better by far to divide the power from the will to use it.

Even so, this would never do. He set his jaw and closed his hand on William's shoulder, and Will leaned into him for support. Thomas kept his voice low and measured. "Think about what they would do to us, your golden Hercules included, if they ever learned the truth. The noose, the pike, the pyre. Or if they're feeling especially creative, all three in order."

"He's not 'my' anything. And he wouldn't-" William protested and his eyes flickered to the laughing knights. Doubt killed the words still on his lips.

"He would." Thomas gripped William's shoulders and stared into his eyes.

_Taste good Christian steel?Not me and never you, as long as I draw breath._

"They all would. We have to smile and play our parts to live in their world, but don't think for a minute that they would ever forgive us for it."

He pulled the reminder around himself like armor.

* * *

"M'lord Thomas!"

Thomas did not turn to look, keeping his feet to the fire and his eyes on William. "Off with you," he growled at Arnould. "And keep yourself gone."

* * *

There were clouds the next day as they took to the march again, but not yet rain to stall their progress. The marching order was the same as it had been since the twins had joined the group; the Count and his closest retinue at the fore; William and Thomas in the middle with the foot soldiers; camp followers, cooks, supplies at the rear, guarded by the remaining mounted knights. Squires and pages rode and ran throughout, the smaller boys sitting on the oxen and the wagons and shouting at any that they might pass upon the road.

And more often than not, Theodore would fall back along the line, gentle his horse to walk no faster than a man, and engage Thomas and William in discussion. At first it was only for minutes at a time but as the days had passed the conversations had become longer, touching on kings and politics, trading tales of valour from the dusty books that William had memorized so long ago, to simple jokes about the men of their company.

It was not Theodore riding in time with them today but Gerhardt, a brute with shoulders broader than Thomas and William together, and a mass of coarse and curly hair that he kept bound with a leather thong. His jokes were not so well-intentioned.

"Come now friar, show us a miracle," Gerhardt jeered, edging his horse closer to William. He had begun with questions that both twins had done their best to deflect, moved into imprecations, and now threats appeared to be the natural progression.

William stepped aside, his head high, and the set of his jaw marked his refusal to admit that he might be afraid.

"The greatest miracle I could do would be to convince you to bathe occasionally," he retorted. Thomas saw his fists ball up within his sleeves, the faint blue pulse that suggested William's temper was close to fraying.

Gerhardt's expression became thunderous and he dragged on his horse's reins to swing its head about. Thomas grabbed for William's arm. As much as he would enjoy seeing the brute fall, here and now was not the place. "Brave sir knight," Thomas mocked, hot on William's heels; if he could pull Gerhardt's attention away from Will- "Ready to attack unarmed men from atop your horse."

The horse reared at Gerhardt's command and Thomas braced; Theodore was between them in an instant, on his green-draped bay. He grabbed for Gerhardt's reins and twisted them in one leather-gloved hand. He cuffed Gerhardt on the back of his head and said something harsh and guttural in the barbaric language of the Rhine, to which Gerhardt made little reply.

Gerhardt dug in his spurs and turned his horse around, riding up to the front of the line once more.

"My apologies," Theodore said, looking from one to the other with something like chagrin. "And his. The men are restless… it should not have happened. I'll make sure it does not happen again. Gerhardt is a good man," he continued, his eyes pleading with them to understand. "But he's not as funny as he thinks himself to be."

"No harm done," William muttered, the tension draining from his body as he looked up at Theodore. Something passed between them, wordless. Theodore turned his horse and rode away slowly, casting a look back over his shoulder to watch them as he went.

William growled low. "How can he be so loyal to those who deserve it least?"

"Because Theodore is a knight and a man of his word," came a deep voice from behind them. Thomas startled, whipped around to see who had managed to come upon them unawares. It was Sir Heinrich, distant, kind; for all that he seemed older and less dangerous than many, his horse moved on silent feet.

William frowned, but Heinrich held up a hand and continued to speak. "They five," he gestured toward the front of the line, where Count Gregory was flanked by his lieutenants, two on either side. "Were fostered together as boys. They were squires together, trained together, fasted for knighthood together. And now Gregory is lord and his companions serve him with honour and pride."

There were warnings in his words, and William seemed disinclined to heed them. "A man's character is shown through the company he keeps," he shot back, his words an arrow leaving the bow.

Heinrich's face was impassive as he replied. "And by the oaths that he keeps, he protects his immortal soul." All of which assumed, of course, that a man had a soul to protect in the first place.

There was little to say where the conversation might have gone following that, for the arrows that flew from the woods took them utterly by surprise.

A soldier fell at Thomas' feet, a blue-fletched arrow lodged in the flesh of his throat. He looked surprised, as the blood pooled beneath him and the light faded from his eyes, and then there was no more time to think because the air was thick with arrows.

"Get down!" Thomas flung himself at William and knocked him flat, covered William with his own body long enough for the first volley to be over. It would take a few seconds to load, assuming they only had one line of archers, and who could be firing upon them? Bandits? The French?

William pushed him off and scrambled to his feet. Thomas found himself crouched behind a foot soldier with a shield, the arrows glancing off the edge as the second volley hit. William was scrambling back and had managed to get a shield in his hands to protect himself, and then Thomas lost him in the crush.

Men swept down on them, faced now with mounted knights and the squires with their pikes, no mark of any king or army on their bodies. Bandits, then. Thomas had his knife in his hand, struck and parried as one rushed at him, sword out and shield before him. He saw an opening and struck, buried his knife hilt-deep into flesh and innards, blood spilling hot and slick over his hand as he withdrew.

Another and another came and he kept fighting, the sounds of swords and hooves and shouting filling his ears with meaningless noise that drowned out everything else.

One thing got through, a familiar scream, and Thomas looked up in time to see it, but too far to intervene. Arnould was braced with his pike but the horse kept coming, coming at him from the side where his pike would do no good. The boy whirled, tried to keep his weapon steady with shaking hands and Thomas was running but there was too much ground to cover and it was treacherous with the bodies of dead and dying men. The sword flashed high, the sun breaking through the clouds to catch the edge.

It descended.

Thomas screamed.

The bandit never saw the blow that took his head, the Dragon's sword faster yet than his.

Theodore leaned over in the saddle as deeply as he could, seized Arnould below the arms and hauled him over the saddle before wheeling to ride away. His mail gleamed silver in the sun, his visor down to protect his eyes, but he was not armoured full for battle and his twisting reach had shifted the bottom of his hauberk to leave his thigh exposed.

The black-fletched arrow found its mark.

The fletching and the blood were the last that Thomas saw of Theodore before the battle rush closed over him again.

* * *

As prepared as they assumed themselves to be, even a force of bandits one hundred strong proved no match for Gregory's mounted knights and their retinues. When all was done and the camp hastily remade, wounds dressed and bodies numbered, there were only five of their own among the dead, to more than threescore of their attackers. A good proportion, Thomas thought uncharitably, as he washed the blood and dirt from his arms. William sat in uncharacteristic silence beside him, drawn and pale.

"We won," Thomas said, and William made no reply. "You were right," Thomas said, because he never said such things and so William by his nature would have to respond. "We would be dead had we been travelling alone."

William still said nothing, but nor did he have time to do so, for Sir Barnabas was rushing toward them with his eyes intent on William. "Come," he barked the order, and Thomas fought the surge of anger at the presumption. "It's time to earn your keep, friar," Barnabas continued, his attention all on William. "Theodore is dying."

Barnabas grabbed his arm and William went.

The tent was a small one, hastily erected to house the wounded and the dying. A half-dozen squires lingered outside with stricken faces, Arnould among them. As they ducked below the open flap, leaving the boys outside to wait for scraps of news, Thomas half-expected Barnabas' exclamation to be proven an exaggeration.

The amount of blood upon the pallet, cloak and man suggested otherwise.

Theodore had been laid out upon the makeshift bed, his mail stripped off and tossed aside, his shirt, tunic and hose already half-soaked red. His face was pale as the grave and his knuckles whiter still where he gripped Heinrich's hand. Fletching emerged from the wound in his leg, an arrow buried so deep into his flesh that only the feathers could be seen. There were veins in the leg that could kill a man in minutes if they were opened; Thomas knew that much. How many more such minutes did Theodore have?

"You're a fool," Gregory was leaning over him and grinding out the words as though each one was poison. "You should never have been there."

Theodore's reply was weak and wracked with pain, his breathing ragged and shallow. "I promised his father. You would do the same."

The chirurgeon, an older man who rode in the wagons with the cooks, was bent over his leg. He had one hand upon the arrow, the other on a handle of a strange small and pointed spoon. "Brace," he commanded, and Theodore screwed his eyes shut, clenched his jaw. Heinrich winced as Theodore's hand tightened around his, but both held steady as the chirurgeon slid the spoon along the arrow shaft and deep into the wound.

Theodore arched and writhed, howled with pain as the doctor pushed the spoon in deeper, causing more blood to bubble up about the arrow. William pressed back against Thomas in the door of the tent, his gaze never wandering from the scene before them. The chirurgeon twisted his hand and Theodore fell still and silent, his head lolling back against the bed.

"Aha!" a pull of both together and the spoon and arrow emerged, the chirurgeon using the one to contain the vicious pointed barbs of the other.

Gregory stood, arms folded, watching the proceedings, the other three stationed about the tent with similar expressions of distress. Barnabas pushed William forward and he stumbled before he caught himself and moved toward the bedside.

"Wine," the chirurgeon commanded, and when a wineskin was handed to him he poured the contents over Theodore's thigh. The purple wine washed away a great deal of the blood, the gaping chasm underneath raw and red and deep. Theodore gasped and his eyes flew open; Heinrich pressing down against his shoulder to hold him steady.

"Do it, friar," Gregory ordered, tension vibrating in his voice. "Heal him."

William sank to his knees and placed his hands on Theodore's naked thigh, the red of the blood and the purple of the wine dirtying his fingers in an instant. His lips began to move, and he must be out of his mind, because he had entirely forgotten- "_William,_"Thomas hissed, and Will came back to himself. He looked, and Thomas looked back, and then he seemed to remember where he was and who he was supposed to be.

William crossed himself. He murmured in Latin. "_Gloria patri, et filio, et spiritui sancto_-" and the knights echoed his prayer.

William closed his eyes and Thomas stepped up behind. He too pressed a hand to a shoulder, but this one was an anchor, a reminder that Thomas was there. William sank into himself, the light fading from his eyes to be replaced with that familiar angelic blue.

He murmured, his lips never ceasing in their movement. He stared into Theodore's eyes and Theodore stared back at him, transfixed. William's hands began to glow. There was a cry of surprise from one of the men, swiftly muffled, and William's power surged.

The light enveloped his hands, soaked in to Theodore's skin, the pumping pulse of red slowing, then stopping, the skin closing over the hole to leave it pink-skinned and newly-scarred.

There was a silent pause that seemed to last an hour, then Theodore drew in a ragged breath. His hand came up to cover William's where they still rested on his thigh, and his eyes were filled with wonder and with awe.

"Theodore?" Heinrich prompted, extracting his hand. He rubbed at his fingers and looked pained as he did so.

"I-" Theodore began, then seemed to collect himself, though he did not move his hand from atop William's. "I think it's healed. I'm dizzy. Thirsty. But I feel no pain."

"Praise be to God," Heinrich whispered, and he stared at the twins – first William and then Thomas behind him, hand still on his shoulder. "He does work miracles."

"Praise be to _God_," Thomas interjected, as he felt William's body begin to slide towards bonelessness before him. A well-placed knee in his back would keep him upright for a few minutes more, long enough for him to stand and walk again without displaying his weakness. "The miracle is His."

Frederick sank to his knees, bracing himself upon the hilt of his sword which stood in the hard-packed earth like a cross. The others were no less shaken; Gerhardt had taken a step back, his eyes not leaving them.

Gregory was the first to recover from his shock, and he sat heavily in a chair by Theodore's head. "Lead us in prayer, friar," he commanded, and it was the first time any of them had spoken the nickname not with derision but with something akin to respect.

William nodded, slowly, and drew back his hands with what looked like great reluctance. He was filthy, his skin red with mingled blood and wine, but he seemed not to notice. He bowed his head and all within the tent followed suit, and recited the words of a rite he did not mean.

Thomas did not care for prayers in any language, Latin least of all, and so he was the one to look up when all other heads should have been down.

William was still praying, but his eyes were fixed on Theodore. Theodore was staring back at him, awe transmuted like alchemy into something more intimate and dangerous altogether.

They were lodestones locked upon each other, transfixed and colliding.

Thomas looked upon them and felt nothing at all but dread.

* * *

**End notes:**

In some areas in Europe in the middle ages and early modern period, children – from aristocratic families especially, though not exclusively – would be sent to live with foster families as part of their training. Boys would often be sent away as young as seven, while girls were more likely to stay with their parents until after puberty.

This fostering system placed children with higher-ranking families, increased social connections, supported kinship and affiliate networks and contributed to a child's education and socialization.

Boys like Theodore and his friends would be sent as pages to the local court or into the households of knights to learn martial skills and politics, while families angled to get their girls accepted as ladies in waiting to highly-ranked ladies. This placed them in good positions to make advantageous marriages.

Somewhere between the ages of twelve and fourteen, a fostered page would become a squire. His education would move from academics and social skills to armour maintenance, riding and weapon use, and basic battle training. Once a squire was deemed ready to advance to knighthood, he would purify his soul by fasting and praying for a full night before taking the chivalric oaths and being publically dubbed a knight.

Knights were expected to be able to read and write, speak Latin and French, fight on and off horseback with sword and lance (among other weapons), knowing battle tactics, hawking, as well as how to dance, sing or play an instrument, and play chess and/or backgammon.

- "Drache" (dra- che) is German for 'dragon,' a reference to Theodore's heraldry.

- "Saracen" was a derogatory term used by Western Christians to refer to Arab Muslims. Originally meant as a racial descriptor for one section of the Roman Empire, by the twelfth century that term had come to specifically refer to Muslims with darker skin. It was also understood to include idolatry, lack of personal or social hygiene, and general savagery. _It is not a nice or neutral word,_ and is especially not a generic 'quaint' or 'olde timey' word for Muslim or Arab.

- A hauberk is a chain mail tunic, often made long enough to cover the legs down to the mid-thigh. Plate armor did not come into popular use in Europe until the late thirteenth century; prior to that, armor was mostly made of linked metal rings, sometimes with larger metal plates incorporated.

- Arrow spoons are a real thing. Ow. War arrows were often made so that the heads were attached to the shafts with beeswax. The heat of the body around an embedded arrow would soften the wax, so that pulling out the shaft would leave the arrowhead embedded. Arrow spoons were developed by Arab physicians and quickly adopted by the west. They were inserted to cup the arrowhead as a kind of shield, to enable the chirurgeon ("surgeon") to remove the entire thing without causing too much additional damage.

- A lodestone is a naturally magnetized piece of rock, strong enough to act as a compass magnet. The term 'lodestone' comes from the old English for 'leading stone.'

- Alcohol was pretty much your only anesthetic, as well as your only decent disinfectant. Have fun storming the castle!


	4. As I Am

As I Am

Rating: E (M/M)

Relationships: Billy/Teddy

No archive warnings apply. The guys start off with a bit of dutch courage to ease the way, but they're not too drunk to give proper consent.

Based on "As I Am," by Heather Dale. watch?v=TF5oqpYvxyc&list=PL2kdjR4vw6B9Y7nDiAUmCs1lEAzQumVKr

* * *

Even this far south, the fall rains were cold. The sky hung low overhead, the clouds so swollen and dark that William could reach up his arm and all but touch them.

What would they feel like, running through his fingers? They might be like the fleeces piled in the corner before his mother took them to distaff and spindle, oily wool that promised softness but tangled rough over the fingers. Or would they be more like the mist of the fog that surrounded them in the dank, chilly mornings, so thick at a distance and fading to insubstantial grey at close examination?

Water ran along the edge of his hood and down his spine, and he poked the fire with grim determination. It flared up hopefully, a glimmer of red under the sheltered overhang, but the sodden air and wetter wood would not allow for more than that. The rest of the camp was quiet as day settled into evening, a few small fires banked and left under cooking pots, tents raised and warm inside. The arrival of the French troops had swelled their numbers to a group the size of which William had a hard time truly comprehending. They were moving now as an army in truth, no longer a single line of hopeful knights and hangers-on, but a full battalion riding off to war, blood and glory.

Along with the French, of course, had come more supplies, more carts, more squires to run and joust and play among the tents. And then there were the girls, the camp followers who trailed along behind, tending to laundry, cooking and mending, among other things. The girls who were all too willing to catch a man's eye, to secure themselves a loyal knight and true.

Or a wandering pilgrim, apparently, if he was handsome enough.

Thomas was going to pay for this. He was going to pay, and _pay_-

There were drugs that removed a man's abilities to perform. If Thomas was so ruled by his cock that he would turn his own brother out of doors in the rain so that he could take a girl to bed, then William was duty and honour-bound to find himself an apothecary at the next city. A little tincture of mint in his stew and he would soon be rethinking his priorities.

He stabbed the fire viciously, and sparks flew up from the desiccating logs in response_._

So caught up in his own sad and sorry physical state as he was, he barely marked the shuffling of feet behind him, the sounds of a steady tread on the path. It was not until a hand fell on his shoulder, tentative and lighter than it might have been, that he sat up and took notice. The fall of Theodore's dark green cloak was spotted with rain, the water beading off the tightly-woven wool. The face beneath the hood was cast in shadows, but those shadows vanished when he smiled.

"I was told that there was a drowned rat skulking about the camp," he opened, his eyes raking along William's hunched figure. William straightened despite himself, his body thrumming in tune with Theodore's gaze. He sat up, keeping his feet close to the fire, but the heat it gave off was nothing compared to the warmth that burned up from the inside at the sight of Theodore's smile.

Thomas was right; he was an idiot and a numbskull.

In the four months that they had been riding with Gregory's men, had Theodore ever given indication that he had inclinations toward William other than friendship? He had not taken a girl to his bed tonight, but that said little except for proving that his taste was better than Thomas'.

It was enough, though, to be the recipient of that golden smile, to bask in the warmth of it, and of his gentle mockery, and to forget, for a moment, that he had anything at all in the world to fear. It would have to be enough.

"If this rain keeps up," William replied, tipping his hood back to better see, "I'll pass right through 'drowned rat' and end up at 'fish' before the week is out."

Theodore chuckled, low and rich, and the smile blossomed on William's face before he could think to try and stop it. Theodore crouched down, then, so their heads were more of a height, and rested his forearms on his knees.

"Why are you not in your tent?" he asked after a minute, the firelight playing red and gold along his hands, his thick fingers and broad, calloused palms. The scar from the arrow wound was buried under the folds of his tunic and cloak, layers of fine green and red wool guarding it from William's sight. "A quarrel with Thomas?"

"Nothing so dramatic." William shrugged. "He has found himself some entertainment of the female sort, and I find myself banished. It could be worse," he suggested, blinking up at the charcoal of the sky beyond the overhang, the edges of the clouds tinged red with the last vestiges of the setting sun. "The rain is light and the wind is not too bad-"

It was as he said it that he regretted putting it to words, a bolt of lightning cracking overhead. The thunder followed in a rolling roar, and William flinched despite himself.

Theodore snickered. "Best keep your thoughts to yourself, miracle man, or we'll be floating away in an ark before too much longer." He held out his hand, either unaware or ignoring the way William's brow had lowered at the nickname. He had said it with kindness (with perhaps some affection, if William allowed his fantasies to run riot) and without the undertone of careful distance with which his brother knights treated William now. Healing Theodore's wound was one miracle that William could not ever wish away, but he could have done with less of an audience. Thomas could overcome the hesitation with which so many of the others regarded him, through sheer force of will and charm, but William had not been so lucky.

Beyond his brother, it was safe to say, Theodore was like to remain his only friend. And that, only so long as they both travelled along this road. Thomas did not bother to ask, now, when they would break off from the Crusade and make their own way again; he only looked at William and smirked.

And sometimes, he looked at William and Theodore, on evenings when their heads bent together in easy conversation, and he frowned.

But he held his tongue. And so William, in turn, held his.

"Come on," Theodore pushed against his knees and rose to his feet, holding out his hand to William. His robes fell down around his knees as he straightened, the firelight picking out the lines of stitching, the fine silk thread, the golden embroidery of the dragon upon his surcote and the brooch that kept his cloak clasped at his throat. His skin was golden there as well, from the sun as well as the firelight. His pulse would beat there, in the hollow of his collarbone, thunder against any pair of lips pressed to his skin-

William was staring and he glanced away abruptly. Theodore's adam's apple bobbed once as he swallowed, a gesture caught from the corner of William's eye.

What could he possibly have to be nervous about?

"Come where?" William asked after a moment, and he rubbed his hands against the damp wool of his pilgrim's robe before placing his palm against Theodore's. Theodore's fingers closed around him, encompassed his hand in heat. Fingertips brushed against the inside of William's wrist, the briefest searching flutter, before Theodore gripped him tightly and pulled him to his feet. William went, hauled to standing, and oh the strength coiled in those muscles that could move him so readily…

He had seen Theodore unclothed before, when they had paused at a small river and taken the chance to bathe and wash out tunics and shirts alike. William and Thomas had stayed back, taken the chance to bathe where they would not be seen, their bodies not remarked upon.

The knights had still been at play when they had returned. They had been like children, Thomas had snorted, splashing each other and lying out on the banks to warm themselves in the sun. Their linens were draped in the trees to dry like so many white crows, or ghosts in winding sheets.

Theodore had shone then as well, his blond hair curling wet around his shoulders, the handful of scars that traced his side and arms testament to the life of violence he embraced, his nipples tight with cold when he breached the surface of the river. William had wanted nothing more in the world but to press his mouth against one, lick the drops of water from his skin, sink beneath the surface of the river, take Theodore's prick into his mouth, and…

Drown.

"Back to my tent." Theodore nodded across the fire to his tent, sitting a little apart from the main circle, flaps closed and canvas dark. "I can't allow our patron saint to die of a fever before we even reach Venice," he joked.

This was an exceptionally bad idea. He could wait for Thomas to finish entertaining his guest, crawl back into dry clothes and his own bedroll and wait out the storm. He should let the thundering pulse in his body fade away untouched, not dwell on the unattainable or let fantasy overtake his reason-

Lightning and thunder struck once more and this time Theodore jumped. He was watching William with dark and unreadable eyes, his lower lip curled in where he was chewing at it. Was _he _the one more concerned with the storm? It seemed so out of place for him to be nervous over something so prosaic, but then, every man had his weaknesses.

"No fevers," William promised, and drew his hood up over his head again. "I may not be a big brute like you, but even I have some soundness of limb." Though the exaggeration was unfair. Theodore was broad-shouldered, true, but not so much taller than William when they stood side by each. And apparently, Theodore – the great dragon himself – was afraid of storms.

If Theodore was nervous about thunder, then the least that William could do would be to provide him with company and distraction while the clouds rolled by overhead.

Water and mud splashed around their feet as they ran for the tent, mud splattering up William's legs and soaking his hose through before they reached the security of the canvas. Theodore untied the flap and held it up for him to duck inside, breathless and his face flushed by the time he found his flint and tinder and lit the candle. He brushed the sodden hair back from where it stuck to his forehead with a huff of impatience.

Theodore's tent was about the size of the one the twins were sharing, perhaps a little larger. A waxed cloth protected them from the ground and a large bedroll was unfurled along one side; an ornate chest stood facing it, the leather strapping chased with ornate figures and hints of painted gold. Theodore hauled the lid open to reveal folded clothes, some books, the glint of maille spilling over the dark folds of fabric.

His cloak was wet through and clung in sodden folds to his legs, and William peeled it from himself with a grimace. The tent was only slightly warmer than the air outside and he shivered at the chill, his hose and boots holding the water close to his skin. Something hit him and draped over his head - a dry shirt. Theodore was in the process of taking off his own, his back and shoulders rippling as he stripped the damp linen from his body.

Theodore was standing close in the tent, too close, and though his back was turned as he dressed, it was impossible not to note the taut lines of his muscles, the curve of his seat, the strength in his legs. His hose hid little of his form, cupping and cradling each sinuous line, the bulge of his crotch cast in half-shadow beneath the hem of his shirt. William's prick stirred at the sight and the thought, a pleasant ache coiling deep within his gut and his breath catching before he found the wherewithal to look away.

It almost hurt to pull his eyes away from Theodore. He drew the clean linen over his head and wrapped it around himself. Theodore's shirt was too big for William's shoulders, and cool from the autumn air. It smelled faintly of _him,_ the oil that he used to keep his leather jerkin supple, the metal tang of his chain maille, a musk lying beneath that William wanted to breathe in, to pull into his lungs and keep there forever, a little piece of this beautiful man inside him, always. His body responded, warmth slowly returning to his limbs.

Think of something else, something that did not revolve around Theodore's shoulders, or his scent, or the way that he would turn on William in a heartbeat if he knew the dark desires that ran beneath the surface of his so-called 'holy' mind.

He dropped his head and worried himself with his own task, draping his cloak over the tent's cross-bar in the hopes that it would dry faster.

The hose- no, he would keep his hose on. They were not so damp that they would not dry quickly enough, and the process of untying his points would be a little more revealing of his current state of semi-arousal than could ever be safe to reveal. He could blame it on the growing warmth in the tent, perhaps, or-

Or take the coward's way out and live with wet feet.

He could take the boots off without betraying the reactions of his body, and he dropped down into the wooden chair to peel the leather from his calves.

Theodore glanced back over his shoulder, only the once, and the candlelight cast an illusion that made his cheeks look flushed as he turned away.

Blankets came from the chest next, to wrap about themselves, and a skin of wine that was so much better than the swill they had been buying from the local towns that William wrapped his hands around the boiled leather and all but growled at Theodore when he attempted to take it back. Theodore laughed, dodged to the side as though prepared to tackle William off the chair to take the skin back-

And the images _that _generated in his mind were so distracting that Theodore was able to retrieve the wineskin without a fuss. He brought the spout to his lips, his eyes fluttering closed, and his lashes against his cheekbones were simply unfair in their beauty. The sunlight washed them out, sometimes; too bright against the gold of his hair. But here, in the flickering candlelight, every detail of his face was thrown into relief.

"It will be a few weeks more before we make camp for the winter," Theodore began, something indefinable in his blue eyes as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

Travel. Travel was a wonderful mutual topic of discussion, and William took the wineskin back, careful not to let his fingers graze against Theodore's as he did so. It was too dangerous; he was too tired, too infatuated, too- too _stupid_ not to let something break through, if he did. And exposure meant death.

He had no desire to die today.

The candle had guttered out by the time they had finished the wineskin between them, and Theodore made no move to light a second one. The world had settled into darkness outside, hushed voices and the occasional burst of laughter from other tents punctuating the sounds of the rain. The thunder had moved on, but still the wind shook the canvas of the tent, a chill gust breaking between the layers every once in a while to chill their bones.

William had migrated to join Theodore on the bedroll by this point, bundled close in the wool blanket he had been lent in lieu of his cloak. Theodore tossed the empty wineskin in the general direction of his chest and flopped back upon the bedroll with a laugh. William's head buzzed in concert with the sound, a delightful tingle that suffused his bones and ran through to the ends of his fingers and his toes.

He could curl up here and simply not move, refuse to leave the warmth they had generated between them, the blankets piled around them, the heat of Theodore's body close beside.

But Theodore had said something that was _wrong_, and that simply could not be borne.

"William the Marshal," William pointed out, propping himself up on his elbow and gesturing in the air in frustration, "is the greatest fighter the tournaments have ever seen. You cannot possibly mean to compare his record of five hundred victories against some... some French _by-blow_ with a measly ten-score and six."

Theodore snorted, head lolling back against the blankets and his lower lip stained dark with wine. "Five hundred victories against carefully chosen opponents in tournaments convened by invitation is hardly comparable to success at a proper pas d'armes! A knight who cannot face down more than one opponent at a time is hardly worthy of the name." He laughed up at William's frowning face. "_I'd_ fight him."

"Then I hope your family has enough on hand to pay your ransom," William fired back, grinning in return. "Because you'd find yourself unhorsed and in fetters in moments."

"You doubt my skill?" Theodore pressed a hand to his bosom and put on the pretence of affront, the twitching smile at the corners of his mouth giving him away. His hair fanned out, golden, on the bedroll beneath him.

William nodded solemnly. "You have many miles to go, young sir knight, before you can best England's boldest on the field."

"If William the Marshal ever fought on the field, I might take that under consideration."

Really, he was too arrogant to be borne, however well he might have earned that right to boast. "If you'll not give way on this, then fine. Our good King Richard. Surely he was worthy of consideration. And _he_ led armies into war." And to Crusade, which he could not condemn in front of Theodore, but which at least in Richard had been tempered by a certain form of kindness.

Theodore went very still, very suddenly, and he stared up at William, blinked, did not reply. A frown began to form on his expressive face, and William felt a chill. Had he said something wrong? Had King Richard or his men been on opposing fronts to Theodore or his father in the past? He had somehow mis-stepped, and he flushed cold with regret.

But then the smile came back to Theodore's eyes, and whatever had passed between them, thick with indecipherable meaning, was gone. "Richard was captured and a prisoner of Leopold's for two years," Theodore pointed out with a wicked grin. "Are you sure you want to name such a coward as your champion?"

"He was no coward!" William objected with abject horror. "Even his enemies granted him the name of Lionheart. Retract your insult, you... _barbarian_."

"Lionheart?" Theodore snickered and rolled on to his side, facing William. They were so near that they could almost be touching. It would be so easy to slot his body in beside Theodore's and press him down, to feel the tension bunch in his muscles, to taste the hollow of his throat and find that flickering pulse beneath the leather-oil-metal smell of the bachelor knight.

"I think you misunderstand. Your old crusader king was not 'Lionheart,' fair, misguided William," Theodore teased, and poked William's chest with one finger. "Not coeur-de-lion, but 'Coeur-de-_Lyons_,'" he added, emphasizing the accent in the language that was a second tongue to them both and the only one they had in common.

"Coeur de Lyons?" William repeated, feeling lost. He was missing something, something in the way Theodore's eyes lingered on his lips, in the aborted twitch of his fingers against his own thigh.

"Lyons," Theodore repeated, more quietly, this time. "It is said that he had a passion for the French Dauphin. That they wooed, loved… bedded. Half the world knew it." He cocked his head, then, lost some of that vulnerable look in his eye, and it was only in the passing of it that William realized it had been there in the first place. "Was it only England that did not?"

The bottom dropped out of the world. William stared at Theodore, and it were as though the sun was rising in his eyes. Was this idle gossip meant to inflame his anger and provide subject for debate between the English pilgrim and the Holy Roman knight, or-

William said nothing, his mind turning over furiously. He could find out immediately, now, simply by leaning in, or by getting up and leaving. With the first option rested the chance to fulfil every desire that burned in his blood, every whispered fantasy and sticky late-night sin.

On the other, life.

Theodore lay there, unmoving, watching him. William took a breath, but he had waited too long. Theodore began to sit, to move away, and there was fear in his eyes, dark and wild.

He leaned forward and seized Theodore's face in his hands, pressed their mouths together, his lips closed. It was almost chaste enough that he could deny it later, claim the influence of the wine, anything that would let him keep his head and his entrails where they needed to be.

Theodore went rigid in his arms.

He had misunderstood after all – _damnation!_ Terror flooded through him, replaced that first impassioned burst of desire. He had guessed wrong, he had guessed _wrong_ and now he would be exposed. If he was lucky, they would be turned out of camp alive; beatings could be healed, the pyre could not.

And then hesitant, slowly, Theodore leaned over to follow his mouth. He pressed his lips against William's, closed at first. He traced the seam of William's lips with the tip of his tongue, tentative and light. William opened his mouth, whether to say something or to breathe, he could not be sure. His mind was clouded with desire, thick and desperate, and he grabbed at Theodore's shirt to find some kind of purchase. He fell to his back on the blankets, Theodore's tongue slipped inside his mouth, and there was no space left in his mind for thought, rational or otherwise.

"So England _does_ know," Theodore whispered against William's mouth, bracing himself on his arms. He straddled one of William's legs, his thigh slotting between Willliam's knees. God; the muscle there from sitting his horse; did he want – would he allow-

William took the chance, stroking his hands up the long lines of Theodore's thighs, and they trembled beneath his touch. His hose clung to the shape of his muscle, soft against his fingers. Theodore's mouth was on his again and William kissed him back, ran his hands up under that loosely-hanging shirt to the folds of Theodore's braes. He was hard beneath the buttery-soft linen, his hips rolling into William's hand in an involuntary thrust. He gasped, and William kissed the sound from him. "Please," Theodore groaned softly, and William pressed a finger against his lips. Silence – noise would be their undoing.

Theodore nodded and caught his lower lip between his teeth again as William slid his hand along the length of his prick. There was wetness already gathering on the fabric that separated them, and it took all the control William had not to pull at the ties until they snapped, shove his hand down inside and simply _take_.

There was no way to know how much time they had before someone heard, someone came to the tent, interrupted them. If he didn't get the chance to get his hands and mouth on Theodore before that happened, he might well die from yearning alone.

Theodore had taken advantage of his momentary distraction and was pressing kisses down the length of his body, pulling aside the folds of his shirt. He dragged strong fingers across the planes of William's chest, catching on a nipple that was already diamond-hard and sore.

The contact was a sharp point of pleasure-pain and William hissed, arched up into the sensation as Theodore fastened his mouth there and sucked. He laughed at William's response, smiling against his skin, until William scrabbled for purchase on his shoulders and dragged him up to meet his mouth once more.

He had to ask, he had to know, though the likelihood of regretting it was high- William kissed him again, rolled his hips against Theodore's, so that their pricks aligned and rubbed together. Sparks shot down his spine at the contact, spinning and gathering at the base where a powerful heat was already smouldering. "Have you done this before?" William asked, and he bit lightly at Theodore's plush and swollen mouth.

"Yes-" he answered, a slight hesitation there, "and no."

"Both?" William laughed. "That sounds as improbable as my-" _magic_, he would have said, but for 'thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.' "Miracles," he finished instead. Theodore's cock was pressed against the hollow of his hip, hard as any sword, and he thrust up against Theodore to punctuate his comment.

"I've played, as boys do," Theodore shrugged off the answer as if it were meaningless, then fixed his eyes on William. "You?"

He managed a nod, then, "but never like this, as a grown man, with someone-" he paused, then, "with a friend." There had been a handful, bright stolen moments of secret pleasures, enough to learn what he liked and how to please another, but none of them as bright and beautiful as _him_.

Theodore lowered his head to graze his teeth across William's collarbone, his neck, before finally seizing on his earlobe and sucking it into his mouth. William groaned low, remembering only at the last moment to choke the sound back in his throat. He wanted to see Theodore, to watch that glorious golden skin paint red with blushes and with lust, to stripe his release across the plane of Theodore's stomach and claim him as his own, even if only for a night.

He reached for the hem of Theodore's shirt to pull it over his head and off, but got his hands batted away for his troubles. "If someone should come," Theodore murmured into his ear, casting a glance back at the tent flap, still tightly tied and secure.

"Let them come," William murmured back, but dropped his hands to Theodore's hose points instead. The wool slipped between his fingers as he tugged, popping the laces free.

Theodore gripped his hips and pulled him over until William was straddling him, knees on either side of Theodore's thighs. He stroked his hands up William's legs, lingering on the muscles of his calves, tracing patterns up the wool that covered his knees, his thighs. His fingers stroked the top of William's hose and found the skin of his thigh beneath, tucked in and circled the edge. His touch was sure but gentle, a soft brushing of skin on skin that did nothing to quell the ache rising in William's core, the coiled tension that wrapped around the base of his spine and sent blood rushing to his prick.

He was hard, so hard and yearning, the roughness of the fabric against his prick more of an irritant than any kind of pleasure, and still Theodore did not speed his motion. He stroked down with his thumbs, caught the hollows of Williams' thighs where they met his body. William jerked and bit back a low and needy groan. His teeth were sharp against his tongue, the pain the reminder that he needed – _silent, keep silent, or they will know –_ and he rocked his hips up, desperate for pressure, contact, anything that would end this aching tease.

Theodore circled his thumbs, pressed in against that dip in William's thighs then brushed up and in, catching William's balls on the upstroke. The pressure was barely there, the backs of his thumbnails smooth against the tight, hot skin, William's balls were already drawing up, heavy, hot and tight. He wanted Theodore's hands on him, around him; or maybe his mouth, suckling gently at first, then with desperate hunger.

Their teeth clashed together as Theodore lunged in, fastened his mouth on William's and plunged his tongue deep inside. William opened for him, wrapped his arms around him, fumbled at his waist to free Theodore from his braes; get them _offoffoff_ and feel his skin, his prick, get it in his mouth and suck and lick and taste.

The blankets were warm under his knees as he kissed his way down Theodore's body, scrabbling to push the layers of fabric away. His dark green hose were a black line against his thigh in the near-darkness of the tent, Theodore's thigh pale and the hair sparsely scattered. William bent his head and licked that stripe of naked skin, framed by white linen on one side and dark wool on the other. Theodore bucked up against him and hissed at the touch of his tongue, and the joy bubbled up to explode from him as a laugh, because this – this was _real_.

He twisted Theodore's hose points in his fingers, dragged the top of the hose down just a little more so that he could suck at the flesh thus revealed. He had had his hands here weeks ago, under circumstances so different, Theodore's blood running hot around the arrowhead that had pierced him through. There it was, the top of the scar, and William dragged his tongue across that as well, raised and smooth in the darkness. Theodore's breathing stopped dead and William flattened his hand against his hip to hold him in place as he trembled. His braes tented out obscenely, a spreading wetness at the top demonstration enough of his desire. William kept his mouth at the top of Theodore's thigh instead, biting and sucking at the edge of the wool, the contrast between that and the heat of his skin, the hollow of his thigh.

He finally took pity when Theodore began to curse under his breath in that vulgar language of the Rhine, the harsh gutturals rolling off his tongue and his hips jerking upward in awkward and shaky rhythm. It only took a second to loose his braes and pull his cock free, and even in the darkness William needed a moment to take in the view. Theodore sprawled beneath him, unlaced and undone, his hose rolled halfway down his thighs and his cock jutting proud from his body, flushed red and hot against his stomach. William sank down on it, his lips parting to take him in, hands gripping at Theodore's hips to prevent him from thrusting in too quickly.

Theodore tasted of summer, of sunshine rides and starlit nights, he was salt and sour-sweet, and thick enough to stretch William's lips and fill him up entire. William tongued at the fold of his foreskin, pushed it down with his hand, sucked at the crown of Theodore's prick first lightly, then stronger, to see which he liked best. Theodore jammed his knuckles into his own mouth and keened softly, eyes screwed closed as he rode up into William's mouth. His other hand scrabbled for purchase as William rose up and dropped low again, taking in as much as he could, to impress Theodore upon his memory, upon his flesh.

"Stop," Theodore gasped out, grabbing for William's hand and lacing their fingers together. "I want-" William pulled off, already mourning the loss of that taste of him, the weight of his prick heavy on William's tongue. He sat back and Theodore sat up to join him, scooping his hands around William's buttocks and drawing him close. Their lips locked and Theodore licked in to William's mouth, the heat of him all but unbearable.

He felt his own braes come loose, his attention diverted by Theodore's hand cupping his balls, tugging at them, stroking and fondling. Then there was a hand around his prick, stroking up, and it was too dry, just on the good edge of pain and too much, but his cock was leaking at the tip and it would only be a moment before everything was wet and hot and lovely again.

Theodore stopped.

William froze.

_damnshitFUCK._

Theodore drew back his hand and stared at William with a frown creasing his brow, as though attempting to divine something from the expression in his eyes.

_Fear, that's what he sees, fear and panic and how could I have been so _stupid_?_

His eyes looked down to where William was straddling him, to the edges of fabric pushed aside to allow him access, to where William's prick still stood, erect despite the sudden rush of terror, red-tipped, yearning… and circumcised.

Theodore frowned. "You are no Christian," he began, as though trying to wrap his mind around something new and not entirely pleasant. He stroked his thumb up the vein beneath William's cock and around the faint and sensitive scar. William gasped at the sensation but pulled back, drew his – _Theodore's_ – shirt more firmly around himself.

He could lie; lie and say that there was another reason, or that he had had his moment on the road to Damascus, and all that came with such notions. But he looked into Theodore's eyes and found himself unable to find the place to begin. His blood began to settle, his arousal fading to be replaced with the curling edges of fear. "No," he replied, and he waited for his fate to be pronounced. "I am not."

That frown was devastating, but there was not as much condemnation in it as he had expected, more… curiosity, and bewilderment. But then Theodore spoke again, his brow furrowed in thought.

"Are you a heathen... or Mohammedan?"

William drew a breath. He looked up at Theodore through the dark hair that flopped over his brow, and willed with all his heart for this to end swiftly, cleanly; perhaps Thomas could still escape, if he sounded the cry loudly enough.

"I am a Jew," William replied softly, and he braced himself to jump back, get away; his boots were under the chair, his cloak between the bed and the tent flap. He had a chance-

Theodore just chewed his bottom lip in thought. "But you've been baptised since."

"No."

He did not reach for his sword, nor shout to raise the camp; he simply looked at William. The tent was dark, but there was enough light still to watch his expression slowly lighten, the furrows vanish from his brow, and kindness replace the questions in his eyes.

Theodore took William's hand, stroking the palm with his thumb once, twice, the same way he had stroked his thighs before. William's breath caught in his throat, his heart racing despite his better intentions. Theodore's touch was fire, shooting through William's body to pool in the centre, tightening and pulsing with his heartbeat.

He let Theodore turn his hand over and place it on the place on his thigh where he was scarred. It would be pink, in the light, still angry. William's magic had sparked there, bright and terrifying, knitted bleeding flesh back unto itself. If he crooked his fingers, dug in, he might be able to feel the rush and burn still sitting there, the miracle floating beneath Theodore's skin.

"Whatever faith you profess," Theodore began, slowly at first and then with earnest longing. He tipped William's chin up with the fingers of his other hand so they were once more eye to eye. "From this alone I know you are blessed."

Relief, oh blessed relief and salvation in one combined. William sagged with the pull of it, caught by Theodore's arm sliding tight around his waist. Tipping his head to kiss Theodore won him an eagerly opened mouth in return, warm lips on his, a hand sliding up his thigh to slip beneath the upper band of his hose and encircle his thigh.

There was just one more thing- William broke the kiss, ignoring the whimper Theodore made at the loss of contact. Theodore's fingers traced circles at the top of William's hose and his prick jerked up in response, but he could not let himself be distracted, until-

"You'll not betray us to Gregory?" he asked, and Theodore fell still, but only for a moment, one that passed so quickly William could not be sure it had been there at all

"And what would I say when he asked?" Theodore asked lightly. He paused, licked a wet stripe down the middle of his hand, and wrapped William up in his broad palm again. "'How now, Theodore, how did you discover him?'" he imitated Gregory's cadence and speech, with a faint thread of mockery. "Should I say, 'well my lord, I had my hand wrapped about his prick at the time-'" He broke off with a laugh and a twist of his hand, and William thrust up eagerly into Theodore's grip, his body ready to forgive without question.

"Your secrets are safe with me," Theodore murmured into his ear as he stroked him. "_You_ are safe with me."

That earned a kiss, and William sank his hand into Theodore's hair as their hips rode together, those golden waves silk-soft between his fingers. Theodore's grip on his prick was sure and strong, his strokes steady in their pace. The fire was building in him again, curling and burning in the base of his spine and in his balls. He needed-

William curled his free hand about Theodore's prick, bringing it in line with his own. The heat and length of him was unbearably good, pressed up against William's, their rocking together catching him just under the head. Their foreheads tipped together and held there, each bracing the other, their panting breaths mingling and coming in harsh gasps. Theodore shifted, laced his fingers with William's and encompassed them both, fist wrapped around their two cocks together. Spit and pre-come salved their path, their hands slick with it and sweat prickling at the backs of William's knees.

A low groan broke the panting silence they had kept, and Theodore buried his face in William's shoulder, his face burning hot. It was harder and harder to keep quiet himself. He felt teeth sink in to the fabric of his tunic, Theodore's hips rocking faster now as he thrust up into their interwoven fingers.

"_Please_," William begged despite himself, teetering on the edge of a precipice, pleasure burning through everything until he had no sense left at all, could not remember why it was so important that they stay quiet in the first place.

Footsteps sounded outside, and the sound of drunken laughter. Theodore sat up with a start, his eyes wide and panicked, but his hips only stuttered once before he found his rhythm again. William took a breath, then Theodore clamped his free hand over his mouth and cut off what he had been about to say. He relaxed into that support, closed his eyes and pressed his mouth against Theodore's palm, thrust up into their hands.

There it was, looming bright above him, as the sounds of the camp echoed outside their little private shelter. He was almost- he tightened his grip around them, felt the hard length of Theodore's cock sliding against his, catching just there, and there, and _oh_, _OH_.

He sank his teeth into Theodore's palm as the pleasure burnt through him, coiling and exploding out through his cock, covering their hands and Theodore's prick with wet heat. All turned to white.

Theodore followed him down a moment later, the slick of William's release guiding his path. His mouth found William's throat again, the join of his shoulder, and the sting of teeth and hard suction broke through the brilliant haze of satiation that had settled warm around William's mind.

They collapsed together back to the bedroll, limbs entangled and slick between their bellies. William tightened his fingers around Theodore's despite the mess, kissed him again and again as he slowly regained the ability to breathe. Theodore kissed him back, bit lightly along William's jaw, his throat, the sensitive skin beneath his ear. He was murmuring things in the German tongue, the words thick and warm and needy as he punctuated them with the pressing of his lips. His leg was flung over William's hips, his cock softening between them and his arm wrapped tightly around William's shoulders.

He should move, should clean and redress and slip back to his own tent, so that they could pretend that none of this had happened. The next day would dawn and Theodore would regret his lapse, and if William was not there when it happened – well. He could pretend that this was something he would get to keep.

"Stay," Theodore murmured in his ear, when William made to roll over and stand. He tightened his arms about him, until William had little choice but to acquiesce.

"They'll find me here in the morning," he objected, but the rain pounded down on the roof of the tent, and the night outside was cold. The blankets here were warm.

"There is nothing amiss with men sharing a bed in the cold," Theodore pointed out, rising up on his elbows to look him in the eye. His hair fell down over his brow and William tangled his fingers in it, pushed it away so that he could see something of Theodore's eyes in the darkness. When he spoke again it was in a whisper. "I would have you stay. Unless you do not wish it-"

And how could something such as that ever be denied? William's heart ached at the plaintive note behind the sound, and he nodded acquiescence before his more logical mind could find him more reasons to refuse. "I do," he replied simply, and let Theodore pull him down to the nest of blankets once again.

It was only much later, in the dead of night, his body thrumming with pleasure and warmth, his skin clean and his clothes back in order, that William found sleep curling in at the corners of his mind. Theodore was a solid presence in the darkness, curled in so that his knees pressed in behind William's own, and one arm looped across his waist.

He was so close to sleep and to dreams that he first mistook the murmured sound for a facet of his own mind. Theodore's voice was mazed with sleep and awe-filled, his gentle whisper brushing the back of William's ear.

"William Dragon-heart."

William tightened his hand about Theodore's and fell into a deep and all-embracing slumber, his heart, for once, at peace.

The camp rose with the sun, as it ever did, and William opened his eyes to the sounds of pots clanking, jeers and cheers and squires' running feet.

He was not in his own bed. Nor his own tent. The warm body nestled in behind him was not his brother, sharing heat in the chill of night.

He was in bed with Theodore der Drache, captain-general of the Baron of Methengau's crusading army, and their fingers were laced together in the same way as they had fallen asleep.

William sat up with a burst of terror, pulling his fingers free. He would be found here, he would be _found_ _out_; Theodore would come to his senses, his head unmuddled by wine, and William would be cast away.

The movement disturbed Theodore's sleep and he rolled over and raised his head. He blinked, bleary and confused, and his eyes fell upon William. He sat up at once, his eyes wide, and they stared at each other across the pile of blankets that had been their sanctuary.

William couldn't move. If he moved it would break this spell entirely, and then there would be nothing left but to grab his clothing and slink away. They would have to separate from the Crusade. Thomas would be just as happy to be travelling alone once more, and then there would not be the ever-present threat of exposure hanging over them. Yes, that was the only option; he'd had a taste of heaven only and would have to be satisfied with that for the remainder of his days.

Theodore was the one to break the silence, moistening his lips before speaking. He ducked his head, a gesture both unusual and disarming, and when he looked up at William again it was through the fringe of his bangs. "Not a dream, then?" was all he said, his gaze tracking down William's arms, the borrowed shirt he wore, lingering for a moment too long on his hands where they pressed against the blankets.

"Do you often have dreams about me?" William found his voice, the whip-crack retort out before he could think himself out of it. He softened it with a curl of his lip, a half-hesitant smile.

"More than you know." Theodore grinned, then, slowly unfurled his fingers and reached out.

William extended his hand, his other bracing himself against the bedroll, and he laid his palm in Theodore's.

This kiss was as sweet and tentative as the night before had been reckless and hasty, morning souring the taste of Theodore's mouth. But he leaned in and pressed William back against the blankets and his hands skimmed down over his sides, his face, his legs, as though making sure that William was real. He buried his face in the crook of William's neck and breathed him in, then laid kisses down the column of his throat and to his chest.

"I am a commander of men," Theodore began, his voice breaking upon the final word. "And I cannot command my own desires. I am a weak and trembling sinner." He pressed kisses along William's flank, his stomach, his hip through his shirt. "And with you, I would sin again, and again, and again-"

Voices from outside cut in and William grabbed for his shoulders to bring him back up to lie even with him. "Not now; we can't," he murmured, claiming Theodore's mouth another time before pulling back. "But when it is safe again, yes – yes, a thousand times yes. I am for you."

It took the shape of an oath in his mouth, a promise made sacred by the very existence of the beautiful man in his arms. It echoed, a resonance of something else half-remembered, but the tendril of thought slipped away before he could more fully grasp it and turn it into the light.

Theodore frowned, braced himself upon his elbows beside William. "Your brother-"

William nodded, slowly. "Thomas is safe; he knows my heart. I could not hide it from him even if I wished to. He will not betray us."

He was answered with another kiss, and the heat stirred deeply within him in response to the feel of Theodore at his side and the pressures of the morning.

Footsteps jangled and crunched on the ground outside the tent, a shadow falling across the canvas, backlit by the sun. Theodore rolled instantly to his feet, cold air rushing in to fill the void where he had lain. William dropped back and pulled the blanket over his head to feign sleep, frozen where he lay.

The flap of canvas announced a new arrival, the number of footsteps suggested two. Arnould's voice piped up, bright and clear. "Good morning, m'lord. There's bread to be had; shall I bring it to you?"

"No, thank you," Theodore answered, and there was the sound of creaking hinges; the chest in the corner. "I'll come out and eat with the men."

A boot dug into William's ribs and he stretched, making a show of opening his eyes and yawning into Barnabas' face. "Morning, friar." The knight grinned down at him, one tooth missing, and nodded perfunctorily before turning to Theodore again. Theodore was pulling a fresh shirt over his head, tossing the old one aside. William did not look, but rubbed his eyes instead and slowly sat, making himself as unobtrusive as could be done, given where he was.

Theodore's expression had changed in the scant few minutes William's head had been beneath that blankets. That sweet adoration was utterly gone, replaced by a smile that did not reach his eyes. He was remote, removed, and so far out of William's reach that he might as well have been the King of Jerusalem.

"How's your head?" Barnabas was saying, grabbing Theodore with his open palm across his skull and turning his head back and forth. Theodore grimaced but allowed the liberty, pulling his belt snug around his waist. "Are you cleansed and pure after spending a night at confession?"

"Better than yours, after spending a night in the stews," Theodore shot back, laughter on the surface of his voice. "You look as though you've had no sleep at all."

"Sicilian dregs gave me a head worse than a beating. Give me good Frankish wine any day," Barnabas complained. William reached for his boots, trying to ignore the conversation, and the movement caught Barnabas' attention again. "Why _is_ he here?"

Theodore paused for a beat, long enough for William to notice, but Barnabas gave no sign. "His brother had the tent," Theodore explained, shrugging his surcote over his head and hiding his face for a moment within the fabric's folds.

"His brother had more than the tent if the sounds were any indication," Barnabas laughed and William winced. His boots were still a little damp inside but he pulled them on regardless, the leather sticking to his hose as he inched them up his calf.

"What about you?" Barnabas elbowed Theodore soundly in the ribs as he bent to pull on his boots. Theodore didn't wince, but slammed his shoulder against Barnabas as he reached for his drying cloak, catching him in the side. Barnabas took the blow, grinning. "Surely there was one girl willing to put up with that ugly face of yours for the night."

Theodore arched an eyebrow, and did not look at the bed. "And earn myself another night of penance and confession?" he asked, giving a half-hearted shrug.

"Ah yes," Barnabas hooted, and held the tent flap so Theodore could precede him out. "I forget. Abstemious and _virginal_ Theodore; your piety shames us all."

"Ask your _sister_ how abstemious I am."

The tent flap fell again, William entirely ignored. He sagged his shoulders and bowed his head, chatter and voices drifting in along with the birdsong as the world woke for the day. He breathed in deeply, let the mingled scents of damp wool and bright leather fill and buoy him up. They could not have the daytime, but they had claimed the night. If God was kind, and looked the other way a little longer, it might not be the only time.

He stood, boots finally on and the rest of his clothing reclaimed. He hesitated before setting Theodore's borrowed shirt down upon the chest, tucking it instead beneath his arm. He would wash it before he returned it; that was only polite, after all. The bundle felt warm beneath his arm, proof physical beyond the aches of his body that the previous night had not been a fever-dream. He closed his hand about the linen, a faint convulsion of his fingers, and the texture of it was as an anchor to his wandering thoughts.

_Dragon-heart._

William stepped outside and let the tent flap fall closed behind him. The breeze was crisp, the sky was clear, and he tucked the words in tight, close about his soul.

* * *

Endnotes:

According to a recipe book from Saint Hildegard of Bingen (1098 – 1179), mint was a major ingredient in a medication which could be brewed to reduce "fleshly lust."

Hildegard of Bingen, _Causae at Curae,_ ed. P. Kaiser, Leipzig, 1903. P. 194

A _drop spindle_ was a device used for spinning fibres into threads before the invention of the spinning wheel, and is still used extensively in some rural areas. The _distaff_ is a device used to hold the raw washed and carded fleece as it is being spun into thread.

Girl with distaff and spindle, from about the right era: . /_VC_ZjklSs6I/TGzYfCOC-JI/AAAAAAAAAW4/l8BGuU2zgrU/ s1600/petzold_

Braes, hose, tunics and long braes.

.

Some scholars do believe that King Richard I was bisexual, citing public penances he made for unnamed sins following sermons against sodomy, his total lack of interest in his wife (and subsequent childless marriage), and his supposed passion for the Dauphin Phillip II, the crown prince of France. While Richard's theoretical penchant for both men and women appear to be supported by the historical record, an affair with Phillip II seems to be only a facet of more modern fiction. Doesn't mean I can't abuse it.

wiki/Richard_I_of_England#Marriage_and_sexuality

Interestingly, despite heading off on Crusade, Richard I was one of the better English kings as far as treatment of the local Jewish population went. While no doubt motivated far more by economic pressures than any concept of religious tolerance, Richard passed statutes that protected the Jewish communities in England from attack, and levelled heavy fines against non-Jews who committed anti-Semitic violence.

William the Marshal was one of the greatest English tournament fighters, served four separate English kings in a variety of military posts. He died in 1219 at the age of 72, two years after riding at the head of Henry III's army at the Battle of Lincoln, and signing the Magna Carta treaty that resulted.

wiki/William_Marshal,_1st_Earl_of_Pembroke

"The stews" technically refers to the Bankside Stews, which was the main centre for prostitution in 12 – 18th century London. Theodore would have used the German slang term for something similar, but I wasn't able to figure out a reasonable period equivalent for the Holy Roman Empire with any certainty. So rather than make something up, I went with the English version.


End file.
